<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>The Last of the Wine by notalotgoingon</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28721937">The Last of the Wine</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/notalotgoingon/pseuds/notalotgoingon'>notalotgoingon</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dream SMP - Fandom, Video Blogging RPF</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Blood, Death, F/F, F/M, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Mafia/Mob AU, Mercenary Corpse, Mob Boss Rae, Mob Boss Sykkuno, Mob Boss Toast, Murder, Violence, graphic descriptions of wounds, side character death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 11:20:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>29,170</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28721937</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/notalotgoingon/pseuds/notalotgoingon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When we are not fed love off silver spoons, we learn to lick it off knives.</p><p>A mob au in which a plot to kill two men spins a web of lies that raises more questions and takes more out of our main characters than any job prior.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Corpse Husband/Sykkuno (Video Blogging RPF), Imane Anys/Rachel "Rae" Hofstetter mentioned, Lily Ki/Michael Reeves</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>178</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Last Word</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Disclaimer: the usual stuff, real people, fake situations, not intended to spread hate or disrespect anyone involved. (Pretty much nicked the title from the great book by Mary Renault)</p><p>I’m sorry about the bad summary. I’ve been working on this for about two or three weeks and have almost the whole story completed; I think I’ll submit the next chapter in 2 days or so.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There’s a man in the corner, fedora casting shadow on his face in addition to the already dark lighting, smoking a cigar that isn’t lit. It’s just for show, everybody knows, but he still looks powerful, even though he’s trying to keep his lungs healthy. Another small detail is the insignia on his lapel, a fox curled into itself. It makes him untouchable, in addition to the imposing figure he displays, all broad shoulders and steely eyes.</p><p>  The crowded room that usually swarms trespassers like a flurry of technicolor moths to an open flame parts like the Red Sea as he muscles his way to the bar. More specifically, he’s got his sights set on the lone man unintentionally facing away from him nursing a nearly empty glass of expensive bourbon.</p><p>  “I’ll have what he’s having.”</p><p>  “Funny,” he comments, not even turning around; he knows his eyes slice through darkness just as well without having to stare his adversary down, “you don’t normally seek out people like me. At least, you never used to.”</p><p>  “Times change. I’ve decided to make an allowance. Someone with your skill set has become very valuable. You were the first person I contacted.”</p><p>  “I’m sure. I’m the only one who can do this job.”</p><p>  The man smiles at the cliche they make. Life imitates art, and they are paralleling every mafia film in existence. The intimidating don calling in a favor from an old friend, bonus points if he’s been perceived as dead by the underground for years.</p><p>  “You’ve retained your arrogance, I see. Tell me, how is the afterlife treating you?”</p><p>  The afterlife, in their business, is a term for early retirement. A bad job or a nearly disastrous blow to your cover, and the boss kicks you off the payroll for a while. They say lay low, and unlike surface occupations, there is no consolation prize or severance package. He’d been called many things, a liability, among others, before they’d kicked him to the curb two years ago. The best in his field, his resignation had come as a shock, and of course, his employers needed to handle the situation properly, basically making sure they came out the other end victorious, so they claimed he had botched a job, put his life and the whole group in danger. He had dealt in lies, sabotage, crimes of all sorts for his whole life, but he had never had people he considered family backstab him.</p><p>  “Not arrogant, self-assured,” he corrects, finally facing the man. His former friend and current adversary hasn’t changed a bit, except he’s gained more muscle, probably had to take on more heavy lifting when the majority of his crew deserted him last year, he deduces. “Now, let me tell you exactly how this is gonna work, Toast. It’s still Toast, yeah? Or should we use aliases, seeing as how we’re not on the best of terms?”</p><p>  After receiving no response from him except a barely there wince, he continues, “Do you understand why nobody’s hurt you yet? There are dozens- I’d wager a guess at 50 or so- of people who want your blood on their hands. There are some who don’t care who kills you, as long as they get vengeance. You just walk in here like you own the place. Somehow, you’re still walking. Good for you, I just hope you know why and think about whether or not it was worth what you did. I hope Rae regrets it too. I hope all you scum bags regret screwing over that kid when he was so loyal to you.”</p><p>  His drink sits neglected behind a steadily tapping hand, “I hope you rot in hell.”</p><p>  “I’m sure I will. I’m sure we all will in fact. But I’m not the religious sort so I’ll tell it to you straight: there was nothing we could do.”</p><p>  “Fucking liar. There was so much you could have done. For someone who calls themself a master of the universe, you seem pretty useless to me. Whatever happened to you?”</p><p>  Toast is a master of many things, but he has never claimed to control the universe. Among the things that he does rule over, however, are his facial expressions. He can maintain flawless composure through anything, earthquakes, massacres, poker games. But even he can flinch sometimes. He replaces his carefully built walls like a castle laborer after an attack from a neighboring kingdom. He is meticulous, keeping the weak, unnecessary emotions where they belong, so deep inside the well within him that they will never surface.  </p><p>  “I could ask you the same question. It wasn’t just him that made you leave, yeah? What was it?” Toast is honestly interested. When he left, everyone on the crew was confused. He left without a trace, taking his gear and anything else that wouldn’t be missed. At the top of his game, he just decided to leave. He looked down from the mountain of success and power, and he quit without a real motive.</p><p>  “You know casualties are part of the job, everyone does. I just found better opportunities.”</p><p>  “In a bar? What could you be doing here that’s better than what we can offer you?”</p><p>  “Toast,” he draws his gaze to the man’s jacket patch. It brings back memories, some good and nostalgic, some horrific, amoral ones, “I know what you want. I know only, say, three people can pull it off, and I’m one of them. I also know I’m the only one who will even consider working with you at this point. Who will you ask when this deal falls through? 5up’s been out of the game for six years now, wild horses couldn’t drag him out of that pompous chalet up in Ontario. Then there’s Tina. You double crossed her once, remember? She’ll never trust you again. I’m your only option, not the best one, but the last resort.”</p><p>  “Alright, what could I offer you?”</p><p>  He nearly giggles out loud but settles for a callous scoff, “Nothing. I wouldn’t do it for anything. You haven’t landed a decent gig in years. Your money’s dried up, and the little influence you have in this world is draining fast. What could you give me, anyway?”</p><p>  Toast knows things about the man before him: his tells, the way he shines his gun methodically as a ritual before every assignment, that nothing destroyed him more than Michael Reeve’s death. He even recognizes the fact that he hasn’t thrown him out yet is the best possible signal to go forward with his offer. Call it a death wish or a fool’s errand, but Toast knows him, and as one of the only people left who truly does, he continues speaking.</p><p>  “You’d be the last thing X ever sees when he takes his last breath. You’d be the one who takes the life out of him.”</p><p>  He knows he’s won. The icing on the cake is his resigned look, like his name is on the dotted line of the contract, and even after reading the fine print, nothing he can do will change anything.</p><p>  “I’ll do it.”</p><p>  “I know you will, Corpse.”</p><p>  He always has to get the last word, “Have the details sent to my address. I’m sure you know where that is.”</p><p>  Toast is a sensible man. He knows when to walk away from the blackjack table with his dignity while he’s still up by a few hundred. With every card dealt, his odds get slimmer or better, changing constantly, but he leaves, rejecting the wispy, sultry call back to the addictive substance of gambling. He follows the light at the beginning of the tunnel. They have a man to kill and an assignment to carry out; no distractions are necessary. His nod rings out when his words don’t, speaks volumes about how he will send the information, and he will concede the last statement to the man beside him because he is sensible and expects Corpse to fulfil his requirement to the best of his abilities, no matter how rusty and out of shape he may be.</p><p>  He leaves the Beachwood Bar, ironic because there is neither a beach nor a forest within fifty miles, around two. A fight breaks out around 2:12, and if it had anything to do with Toast’s voice ricocheting around in his mind, nobody will ever know or dig further into the details, especially not the authorities when they find a drug dealer they’ve been tracking for months, beaten to a bloody pulp, body stuffed in a tipped over trash can. They will also never find the obsidian rose dropped near the entrance to the alleyway, the first one to be planted in a while. Of course, there is no correlation made, none at all, to the incident that occurred on the same day precisely two years prior.<br/>——<br/>  Michael Reeve’s grave is in the heart of a place called Cottontail. In that town of closely guarded secrets and warm apple pies, innocent bunnies made the pioneers plump and happy, warm with fur caps in the winter, telltale evidence of their slaughter seeping through cracks during the winter thaw. It’s near his parent’s house, his childhood home. It’s been said that no parent should have to bury their baby, but Corpse has a different perspective: Michael’s parents shouldn’t have to find out what he did before he died. With his last breath, he asked for his stuff to be burned. The remnants of his team, broken without him, paid their respects with a Viking funeral, a far cry from what his parents were doing when they found out the terrible news. Their accountant son, so handsome and remarkably brilliant in his chosen field, mathematics, not computers, not satellites, not foreign black market weapon sales, not dark web mind games that could break the coldest heart down to bits.</p><p>  The boy, on the cusp of nineteen, had been the glue that held the crew together. Before him, it was just Rae, Toast, and Lily. Then, Poki was brought in for one job then seven more, and eventually, she just stuck around. It was Lily who brought Michael in, convinced him to use his computer skills to help them instead of rotting away in his cubicle, nine ‘till five every weekday. He brought smiles and intelligence, brownie bites and creativity. They let him turn the guest room into a greenhouse, and nobody objected when Lily insisted he be a permanent installment on their missions. While a member, he wasn’t as dark as them; his purity was untouched, unmarred by the despicable things they did with his skills. He didn’t ask why they wanted him to hack into the dark web. He didn’t ask questions, and they never gave straight answers. They liked him innocent. If the cops ever cracked into their operation, he wouldn’t survive prison. Everyone knew that. Everyone knew he, of all of them, deserved better, and they all secretly hated themselves for poisoning him. To curb their concern, they left his names and aliases off the paperwork, kept him hidden that way no bosses knew of his place in their organization, hardly even let him out of the compound.</p><p>  Then Corpse showed up, and things changed. Michael wanted to impress him, show off, do more to help the team on assignments. He didn’t like him romantically or anything, but he had heard about how great of a shot the man was, how he never left a trail, how he could kill anyone with dental floss and two minutes. As for Corpse, well, he’s always liked them innocent, anyway. They became teammates. Michael would stay back, tell the crew how far ahead the targets were, tell Corpse how far the shot would be, celebrate when he made it. He even perfected a tactic of using a small drone to deposit the man’s calling card, the obsidian rose. </p><p>  Nothing gold can stay. Michael made a few calls to the wrong people, arranged a faulty job with too many loose ends. Even at the end, he blamed himself. So valiant was he that he dove in front of a stray bullet for his friends. He kept going, metal in his leg and chest and panic filling his mind. The boy collapsed in front of Corpse, right beside the sniper he had set up according to Michael’s plan.</p><p>  “You’re not dying,” he had sworn, mission objective abandoned like a forgotten stuffed animal.</p><p>  Blood spilled from Michael’s fingertips as he pressed harder on his wound. “Sorry,” he had slurred, body wanting to shut down but giving him the last few moments he needed to say goodbye.</p><p>  “Tell Lily I love her.” The brunette had stayed behind, not needed for the mission, and she had been so grateful for the day off. She was running a bath to soak her worries away, Corpse would later learn after the incident. It was better that way, she didn’t have to stare at Michael, dying on a gravely rooftop in the waning afternoon. She didn’t have to curse the world and beg and beg the universe to bring him back. Nothing would. He had inhaled for the last time with a certain degree of pride and determination.</p><p>  “Burn it all. Goddamn it, Corpse, are you listening?” Hooked on every word, he had been. “Just don’t- I-I want you to destroy my things. All of it.”</p><p>  When he recited Michael’s last wishes, nobody objected. Lily was given the final choice. To cast away the last of the lovely boy’s possessions or to keep them, disobeying his choice. His parents probably would’ve chosen the latter, but the crew didn’t dare peek inside any boxes or take a second glance at the stacks of folders and loose papers. The starting flame and a little gasoline got it going, their personal tribute to their friend, their companion, the only thing driving them to be better people.</p><p>  They all took it in different ways. Rae went on a bloodthirsty killing spree, of course. After three days of mourning, she’d piled up so many bodies, the police would be searching for bones for months, maybe years. Instead of breaking down, she carved bloody tears into the faces of her victims. She murdered without thinking of the consequence, just like the people who killed Michael had. It didn’t matter if they were a wanted mercenary or a civilian because in some little way, they deserved it in her mind, so she mutilated limbs and cut out organs to admire the way a heart stops beating, stripped of arteries to carry life sustenance to its proper places. She didn’t even look back.</p><p>  Toast took the optimistic route, which to everyone else looked like the pacifist, unconcerned with Michael’s death, route. He meditated and learned to cook. He purchased flowers for the grieving parents and comforted Lily. She coped with therapy and yoga, exercise and endorphins made the pain seep away like melting chocolate.</p><p>  Poki didn’t cope. She sat by the water’s edge and screamed into seashells. Everything started to remind her of Michael, so she left. She ran out one night, didn’t even say goodbye to Rae. The latter became so hardened that nothing could hurt her more than Poki’s disappearance. That spiraled into more killing, more inflicted pain, more distractions to make the ache of lost love float away. Poki left, and her honed disguise skills and methods of lying made it easy. Nobody’s found out where she is or who she is. But she left enemies behind that haven’t stopped searching.</p><p>  Most people would figure Lily would have taken the loss the hardest of all of them, but she learned to move on after. It was Corpse who would lay awake at night, picturing the lost, broken look in those eyes that had seen too much for any teenager. It was Corpse who would dig his favorite knives into the doors of random apartments, not caring if the little old lady in 17b got so scared of intruders she didn’t walk outside for six months. He didn’t eat or sleep, like he had done either on a regular basis before. He didn’t care how much he suffered because nothing would bring Michael back. He could cry and mope and kill and drink and fuck, but nothing brought the same joy to his heart like the boy had. Everything was a void for happiness to be sucked into. In the remnants of almost joy, he found stress, darkness, endless tunnels, black rooms that lacked light. Nothing mattered.</p><p>  So when Toast dangles the possibility of bringing justice to Michael’s murderer in front of his face, he doesn’t exactly care that he’s being played like a violin. He doesn’t mind being used so long as he gets to take pleasure in the outcome. That night, he takes out his prized possessions. The sniper comes out first, sheathed in a fine case, still polished even after so long not in use. His daggers, still sharp and hanging off a belt, slip gently into his hands like they were made to be there. He sighs, inhales the smell of cleaning solution and murder, although the latter is a figment of his imagination. He recounts the details of every shot the gun has taken, breathes in the last wisps of cigarette smoke and memorable quirks of a silent, empty night that would surround him as he took aim, the concentration woven into preparing for the shot. He remembers the exhilaration of a well executed shot, bullet implanting itself in whoever he’d been assigned to kill today. It didn’t matter who they were or what they did. It didn’t matter that after so many lives taken, he could barely feel remorse, so numb to the act of killing and the impact it had on people affected.<br/>——<br/>  He gets a phone call from a man in the late evening.</p><p>  “There’s a package outside your apartment.”</p><p>  “From him or you?”</p><p>  “Toast.”</p><p>  “What’s in it?” He grumbles, opening his door to inspect the box, “Not a bomb I hope?”</p><p>  “We both know that’s not how Rae operates. Enclosed should be your uniform. They kept it, I guess. Sentiment runs deep underground?” It’s hardly a question, more to the tune of a hanging statement, lingering in the air without a purpose like perfume without someone to appreciate it.</p><p>  “It’s not mine,” Corpse deduces, judging by the tattered remains, loose threads and charred fabric cutting a clear image of exactly who the article of clothing belongs to.</p><p>  “Oh, my sources told me-“</p><p>  “It’s Michael’s.”</p><p>  The voice on the other line seems to shudder, but it’s just a bad signal, “Are you still going to do the job?”</p><p>  “I’ll call you back in the morning, Lud. Maybe then you’ll decide to retire the good guy act and hang up your cape.”</p><p>  “You need me like this,” he insists, and maybe it’s true.</p><p>  “Like I need a knife to my throat.”</p><p>  Ludwig mutters, “That can be arranged,” after the call ends. He slumps down in his chair, reluctantly closing his eyes. He’s been awake for twenty-seven hours straight. Coffee and energy drinks are his lone companions, and even they have decided he is no more than a lost cause. Well, they are joined by the overwhelming feeling of hopelessness that constantly fights against the honorable side of himself. All he has to do is turn in his badge, and the war within his mind will end. Instead, he lives a double life, a lie either way the coin flips.</p><p>  He is both a fugitive and a detective. He is being pulled in two directions. His bosses are telling him to catch more criminals, gather more evidence, work longer hours, but his heart is telling him to seek out better opportunities. The path before him is unclear, muddled with a need for justice, the virtue he has fought for and seen people die over, and a want for true happiness. Spontaneity. That is what his life has been missing all along.</p><p>  Growing up in a military family, he had few options in terms of careers. He was told to be a soldier or a dropout, thereby being abandoned by his family and disowned. Harsh was the environment he grew up on, but he managed to flourish. He became an investigator for the FBI, and though his parents were disappointed at first, they came around once he won an award, presented by the chief, for catching one of the most wanted criminals of the decade. That was his downfall. He toppled over, wings crushing one another in their plight to reach the ground first. That was when the vultures swarmed, bitter and vituperative, content to leave no morsel of the officer behind.</p><p>  He holds his head in his hands and almost succumbs to the need for sleep. Almost. His eyelids threaten to disobey him, shutting of their own accord, but his self-discipline kicks in, effectively shutting down any alternative maneuvers of defying his orders.</p><p>  He met Corpse early on in both of their careers. The latter was just beginning to attract some buzz in both realms, the criminal underground and the FBI’s radar. Ludwig had been tasked with catching him in the act. His superiors chuckled, for the assignment was difficult. They didn’t even know his name back then. The man was cocky enough, however, to throw down a calling card whenever he left a new victim, so, invigorated by the slight clue, Ludwig researched and examined the cases from all angles. The roses haunted him, pained him at night and on his morning runs. He would see snipers on empty rooftops, climb sixteen flights of stairs just to find himself alone, wind howling, mocking his ignorance. Eventually, he was about to give up. On the morning of his surrender, a note was left on his desk, an ivory rose lying unattended next to the slip of paper.</p><p>  Meet me at midnight. Beachwood Bar.</p><p>  Ludwig didn’t touch anything for a while, so terrified by the message. Of course, the thought did come to him within the first two minutes of reading it that it might be a prank, an office joke everyone else was in on. Something told him it was serious, so with a quick Google search, he found numerous results for the meeting location. Originally built in the 1920’s as a hangout and hiding spot for dissenters of prohibition, its roots were tangled in the web of crime. He chatsized himself for not recognizing the name and scolded himself for even considering going. Even if he did intend to go, the place would be crawling with angry miscreants with bones to pick with the police. They wouldn’t let him within a mile of the seedy place. It was the perfect challenge for Corpse to prove the officer’s loyalty. If he brought back-up, everyone would scatter like rats, and the object of Lud’s fixation would disappear among them. If he went alone, it would be easy for the man to lose his cool, say the wrong thing, ask too many questions, let on about his true intentions, and he’d be thrown out. However, if he managed to play his cards right and make it in and out alive, he would show Corpse he was capable of holding a secret. He could learn his tactics, gain his trust, and lead his colleagues straight to him.</p><p>  He kept the secret of their proposed meeting, his lips firmly shut and hiding the message in a locked drawer of his desk. After leaving work, he started to relax, get into character. He saw no reason to change his appearance because a new inspector who had barely put any high-level lawbreakers in prison was unlikely to raise much suspicion. It was unlikely he’d be recognized as long as he kept his head down and didn’t bring his badge or uniform. He considered wearing a wire but decided against it: there would be plenty of opportunities to incriminate Corpse if this meeting went well.</p><p>  The bar was practically vibrating. Loud, upbeat pop music could be heard everywhere, courtesy of the techno-loving DJ. He found a table, near the bar and twenty paces or so from both the bathroom and the exit to monitor comings and goings. A problem quickly arose: he had no idea who he was meant to be looking for. Midnight ticked by, his watch angering him with every passing second. Fool, the digits chortled to each other, but he blamed the voices on his sleep deprived state.</p><p>  Then, they came closer, “How long have you been searching for me?”</p><p>  “A long time.” Lud shrugged, “It’s you, right?”</p><p>  “Of course.”</p><p>  He imagined the man was smiling, but without a facial indication, he was lost. Ludwig had always had trouble reading emotions.</p><p>  “How much did you drink?” The man was visibly shaking, teetering from side to side.</p><p>  A poorly withheld laugh and a stiff nod, “Enough.”</p><p>  “Yes, well, uh, what is it that you want from me?”</p><p>  It felt odd to address the mercenary by a name, for he had none to give, so he left his statements and questions as they were. Feeling a little empty and very nervous, he ordered a whiskey. The man fell. Collapsed onto the technicolor dance floor with the thud of his body hitting tile or whatever bar/nightclub floors are made out of concealed by the drunken cheers of partiers and electronic music.</p><p>  Ludwig heaved the body over his shoulder, walked out the door with little concern on the part of the bouncers. One woman who claimed she was a doctor asked what was the matter although he waved her off with a “too much to drink, the lightweight.”</p><p>  His muscles were sore when he got back to his apartment. Then the gravity of the situation sank in. He was housing a wanted criminal, a man who had killed dozens, at least, those were the ones that the law enforcers knew about. The mercenary snored, a lot. Ludwig was given an excess of spare time to consider his options. Report his finding to his boss or don’t. He chose the former going against his teachings and ache to pursue justice. His morals prohibited him from turning in a sleeping, vulnerable man.</p><p>  So he let the criminal stay. They had breakfast in silence until he revealed his name.</p><p>  “It’s Corpse. Thanks for rescuing me.” He chuckled bitterly then, “I should’ve believed the doctors when they said to stay overnight. Internal bleeding or something. Maybe a concussion.”</p><p>  He drained his coffee mug and stood up to grab his jacket, placed haphazardly on the arm of the couch.</p><p>  “I’m Ludwig.”</p><p>  He smiled, but it lacked joy or any emotion, to be fair, “I’m aware.”</p><p>  “Good good,” the detective straightened his button up blue shirt and regretted letting his only lead, his one suspect that could be tried and convicted of twenty or so murders, walk right out of his front door. But at least he’d gotten a lead, a name. He couldn’t tell anyone, this he knew. They’d mock him or take him off the case, anything but believe that a man who’d been an intern twelve months prior had caught the best mercenary in the past ten years.</p><p>  Ludwig rests his head in a resigned position on his desk. He plays with a carved cherry wood dragon. No calling card or piece of evidence for a big case, it’s just a gift from his late mother. It’s one of the only things he got to keep after the funeral. A sea of black and pitying stares, he’d knelt beside the casket and drummed his fingertips on the special statue. His light, his hope, just a piece of wood without a purpose but to entertain a small, unhappy boy.</p><p>  Scarra, aptly named for the lacerations he left on his victims, stood by the door. Actually, it was a leftover moniker from when video gaming ruled his adolescence, but the title worked both ways.</p><p>  “Broken through yet?” He offered a greeting and a hot mocha latte, not his preferred drink but a welcome addition to his growing collection of empty and nearly empty cups.</p><p>  “Nothing much of worth. Autopsy hasn’t revealed anything. We’re dealing with an experienced killer.”</p><p>  “Yes, that devil is a tricky one. You’ll figure it out in time.”</p><p>  “I hope so.” </p><p>  “You’re one of the best men on the squad, can’t have you slipping up,” the threat was veiled under black lace, perfectly visible </p><p>  “No, sir. Never.”</p><p>  “Go home, Lud,” the man’s features melted into something almost showing concern but not quite affectionate.<br/>——<br/>  “Celine?” He keeps his eyes on the door, and she keeps her surprise a secret between her face and the floor, “Nice alias, Poki.”</p><p>  “I do my best,” her French accent, flawless as with all of her imitations, slips away like a summer breeze.</p><p>  “You know, it’s taken a long time for me to find you, and I haven’t even been looking that hard.”</p><p>  She narrows her eyes, not one to stand by and let someone critique her artistry, “You only found me because I wanted you to. The question is: why did you want to find me so badly?”</p><p>  “There’s a job. We need you.”</p><p>  “No.”</p><p>  “At least listen,” he objects, folding his arms and trying to keep his temper in check.</p><p>  She rolls her eyes, “Oh, I’ll do it, but you don’t really need me. At least, not enough to travel a whole ocean away to seek me out.”</p><p>  “You don’t understand.”</p><p>  “Yes, I do. I know exactly what you’re planning. My contacts didn’t disappear when I did. They keep informed, just like your spy does.</p><p>  “We could’ve been great, you know. If Michael hadn’t died, and Lily hadn’t left, maybe we would’ve conquered the whole city.” Her frown perks up in an instant, masterfully spotting a chip in her opponent’s armor, “But I prefer not to live in the past, though, I know you do.”</p><p>  “That’s rich. You still keep Rae’s picture by your bed? Or have you found someone else to keep you occupied?” He bitterly remarks, sparing not a care for her feelings, and she itches to remind him she left all remnants of her former life behind ages ago.</p><p>  “We were friends. Nothing more. Stop assuming, I don’t know why you care so much,” Poki bites out instead.</p><p>  “Hardly a matter of how much I care. More of a test to see how well you can maintain composure. You’re losing your touch.”</p><p>  “Right. At least I’m not the one going soft for the enemy.”</p><p>  Corpse stumbles, grip on the situation faltering again, “He’s not the enemy. And I’m not going soft. You know what? It doesn’t matter. If you don’t want to come back, that’s fine.”</p><p>  “Not a question of want. I want a million dollars, but I would have to work for it first. The problem is I can’t. Contractually obligated, I’m afraid.”</p><p>  “Who’d you cut a deal with this time? Jack? Charlie?”</p><p>  “Neither. I’m a free agent right now,” she smirks, “and as it turns out, we’re going after the same thing.”</p><p>  “You can’t have him.”</p><p>  “I can have whatever I want,” she determines with a sneer.</p><p>  “We’ll see. Tell me if you reconsider.”</p><p>  Poki regrets the conversation. She wants to say she’s sorry for blaming him after Michael died, explain how it was tough to move on and that she didn’t mean to accuse him and stack up more blame against him. It’s too late. The damage is done, she knows. He already had everyone in the team accuse him of screwing up the mission and causing Michael’s death. The scars haven’t healed, she can tell by the way he winces after she drops his name. There’s nothing she can do to rectify the past, but perhaps she can do something about the present.</p><p>  “Figured you’d call.”</p><p>  She holds back a retort, “Yeah, don’t get cocky. I can still hang up if I want to. Just make your point, give me your presentation, but do it fast, I have a flight to catch.”</p><p>  “I’m trying to rebuild the team.”</p><p>  “It won’t work. Lily’s off the grid. Rae and Toast are thick as thieves, sure, but once they catch on to your plan, well...they know they’re not exactly number one in your head. They know who’s more important at the end of the day.”</p><p>  “They don’t know about him, actually.”</p><p>  “Oh? That certainly changes things,” Poki raises an eyebrow despite knowing he can’t see her. “Still, we’d be down two.”</p><p>  “I’ve got some people in mind,” he says vaguely.</p><p>  “Okay. What about cash? Rae and Toast have practically nothing, blew it all on gambling or a bad assignment or both. I don’t know, nobody seems like they wanna invest in our sort of thing anymore.”</p><p>  Corpse stores the information about his two former teammates for use at a later date, “What do you know about Swedish bank accounts?”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Last Call</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A first class flight, a trip to Sweden, two important conversations, one pressing dilemma, and too many repressed memories.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Three hours and a plane ride later, the two are docking in Stockholm. </p><p>  “Pewdiepie, huh?” Poki takes in the sight of large, flashy billboards advertising cars and restaurants, among other things.</p><p>  “Yeah, that’s his alias. It’s Felix,” Corpse explains, dragging his small carry-on suitcase behind him, “and he’s got the money we need. So be nice, he can be a little, uh, off his rocker sometimes.”<br/>
———<br/>
“How’s Marzia?” He shifts his gaze from the desk to the wall painting to the man in the cushy leather armchair.</p><p>  “Lovely,” he shrugs. “Miss Pokimane, pleased to meet you. If you don’t mind, I’d prefer we have this meeting on the floor. I stayed in Japan a while back and found their way of sitting down helps me concentrate.”</p><p>  “Of course.”</p><p>  Felix fiddles with a tambourine while they sit straight up on the hardwood floor, “So, tell me why you’re here.”</p><p>  Corpse and Poki make eye contact. He communicates that he can take the lead, and she allows him without protest.</p><p>  “To put it simply, you’re the best in our business. Nobody can take your place right now. That’s why we’ve sought you out over everyone else. We’re prepared to offer you favors in exchange for some capital to back our endeavor.”</p><p>  “Favors?” Felix chuckles, “There’s nothing I need from you. Well, actually, maybe I can find something. Yes, there’s a man in Finland right now. Well, two men of interest, but only one appeals to me right now. His name is Ethan Nestor. He owes me. In exchange for your cooperation, I could be persuaded to offer to bankroll this project of yours.”</p><p>  “Finland, you say?”<br/>
——<br/>
“I have no fucking clue where Finland is,” Corpse admits on the way out, “do you?”</p><p>  “I think so, I’ll book the flight.”</p><p>  “The problem is I’m double-booked.”</p><p>  Poki manages to find a taxi while Corpse attempts to explain his predicament in greater detail, “If we can’t get the exact team together, we can bring in some new blood. I know of a few-“</p><p>  “No.” She determines, “I am this close to abandoning your stupid scheme. Make a decision about what we’re doing and make it quick.”</p><p>  “We need some money. For paying off people, gear, hotels, vehicles. Just money, lots of it.”</p><p>  Her next words are soft, a compliment, although coming from Poki, even the sweetest words are like fortune cookies, hard to swallow without examining the truth inside,  “Don’t tell me that. You’re the best mercenary there is, and you’ve run out of money? Thought you’d be smarter than that. So many jobs over the years and you’ve run your bank account dry? How?”</p><p>  Corpse accepts the backhanded remark with a shrug, “Business is slow.”</p><p>  “No, you’re just afraid. You’re haunted by Michael’s death.” Her deduction isn’t wrong, and she knows it. Continuing, she pays the bill for the car and keeps talking as they step out, “When was your last job?”</p><p>  “I don’t know.”</p><p>  “You’ve got the memory of a goldfish, I should’ve known,” she nearly laughs, struck by an emotion reminiscent of when the team was still together. Different times. Perhaps better times.</p><p>  “Okay. It was maybe two years ago.”</p><p>  “Maybe two years? That’s-that’s Michael’s.”</p><p>  “Believe me, I know.”</p><p>  “So you don’t have any money?” Poki redirects the conversation to the main topic.</p><p>  “Not for this kind of thing. The people on our team have very, uh, expensive tastes.”</p><p>  “I’m aware,” she bitterly mutters, remembering all of Rae’s favorite knives, each worth half a dozen dead people each. She pictures the heavy hilts and sharpened blades that have cut through flesh, touched bone, carved fox insignias in between collar bones, worked their way into arteries, and slotted in between ribs. Then there’s Toast with his collection of vintage booze and finely tailored Italian suits. Corpse smirks, imagining them weathered and torn or hung limply from wire hangers while the bills go unpaid. He always did appreciate spending money and finding others willing to settle his debts.</p><p>  “What’s your second appointment?”</p><p>  Corpse wonders how much he should tell her. He settles for nothing: it’s better that way, “Just a meeting with an arm’s dealer. We’ll probably have enough anyway. It won’t matter.”</p><p>  Intelligence, kindness, and beauty are all traits the woman possesses, but she is not a human lie detector. She nods. Corpse is a good liar, a quick thinker, a smooth talker, and these skills lend themselves to crafting a perfect alibi. Sure, he isn’t at the top of his game, but even bedridden, he could pass off a fictional tale about a gun trade. Poki is none the wiser. She’s already back to the Felix situation.</p><p>  “We can get someone else, can’t we? What about Jimmy? He’s practically rolling in money, and I’m sure he’d be willing to give us some. He was extremely generous to Dream a while back.”</p><p>  Corpse nearly snaps at the mention of the lime green man but refrains, examines her idea and rules it out. He considers all the wealthy benefactors they could approach who would probably have better offers. Then he shakes those thoughts away because Felix is safe, has already given them a deal, and made it quite clear he isn’t backing down.</p><p>  “Yeah, but if we back out now, Felix won’t trust us. I’ve had to scratch tooth and nail to get back in people’s good graces after the stunt that- well, you know. We need to tread lightly.”</p><p>  Boarding a first class flight never does fail to send a rush of exhilaration through Corpse. He sighs, taking in the extra leg room and adjustable seats that just seem so much more luxurious than his usual method of travel. Poki is typing away on her mobile, barely looking up as she orders two mixed drinks. She’s a new character, shifting herself into a spoiled heiress or a CEO’s third wife with a new Louis Vuitton bag slung on her arm, placed intentionally for everyone to glance at and ogle on their way by. She’s no longer French, going for a distinctly Eastern European dialect instead. It gives off the impression of “I’m rich, no questions asked,” especially when paired with her exiquiste makeup and consistent scowl.</p><p>  “Getting pretty good at this, aren’t you?” Corpse comments, but it’s a lie: she’s been good at manipulation, at taking on a new persona every five minutes without stopping to brush herself off. She tumbles into life headfirst, an inkling of an under-developed plan guiding her way. The spontaneity almost reminds him of himself in a way, when he isn’t planning out high-risk missions, that is.</p><p>  “Da.”</p><p>  The cocktails arrive, cherry impaled on a toothpick decorating the glass. Poki takes one but doesn’t drink from it. She holds it in her poised hand like a faberge egg.</p><p>  “You can try if you like,” she says, “accent-work, I mean.”</p><p>  “I wouldn’t be as good as you.”</p><p>  “Ah, nobody ever is. But you can still try. Pick a state, an accent, a name. Blend in, be forgettable, and nobody will even remember your name when you leave.”</p><p>  He recalls a similar situation occurring about three years prior between Poki and himself. He was set to go abroad for a three day mission in Germany, so she gave him an idea of what to sound like and how to act to delay suspicion arising. It worked; he wasn’t perfect like her, but it was enough to get by.</p><p>  “Well, we can sip on martinis ‘til the goddamn cows come home, but that don’ make a difference when we got a job t’plan for,” he tests himself with something easy, something he knows, the mechanics of flawed English and dropped vowels coming to him like a fish to water.</p><p>  Poki smiles, one of the first she’s let slip, “That is good. What is your name?”</p><p>  “Crops, nice to meet ya. I’ve been runnin’ this ‘ere farm since I was ‘bouts twelve, mebbe less. And we never had a problem with this tractor, don’ know what’s wrong. Was gonna wrangle the cows in. Cain’t do that no more.”</p><p>  “Yes, that is good, Crops.”</p><p>  He falls out of his disguise like he fell in, effortlessly swimming in the deep waters, his vocal chords realigning themselves to what his brain wants.</p><p>  “So do you still have any contacts in America?” He ventures to ask. She stiffens, happy atmosphere gone and businesslike demeanor returning, but he continues, “Hafu, Leslie?”</p><p>  “Leslie’s too good for this. She, uh, turned her back on our particular lifestyle ages ago, took her degree and left town.”</p><p>  “Edison doesn’t know where she is?” Corpse wonders aloud, and he knows that if they’re not together, they’re both devastated.</p><p>  “No,” Poki admits, “nobody does. And Hafu, well, I-I don’t like to bring up that. Maybe I can tell you later.”</p><p>  He respects her silence on the matter, knows the heartbreak and pain that comes with loss well. She begins doodling on a napkin, switchblade making certain the flimsy paper stays still as she carves flowers and faces in harsh black ink.</p><p>  “Who else is there?” He won’t give up, can’t afford to with so many lives on the line. People are counting on him. So many families will mourn and plans will fall through if he can’t make some decisions.</p><p>  “Why do you care so much?” A clumsily drawn jagged line becomes the cottony ears of a rabbit. She scratches it out, an imperfection on the fresh white canvas, bitterly saying, “Isn’t this Toast’s job? To find new recruits?”</p><p>  Corpse fumbles around with his words, hand dropping to his left pocket, running his index finger across a slip of paper with a phone number on it. It helps him cope, somehow, odd as it may seem. The repetitive up and down motion is calming.</p><p>  “Well, yeah. I don’t know. He just seems…”</p><p>  “Complacent? Resigned to let you fail?”</p><p>  “I-I guess.”</p><p> Her pen drops, glass swept up in a poised grip,  “I know the feeling. Michael knew it, too. Everything he does, there’s always something in it for him. He sets people up, including me.”</p><p>  Corpse leans forward subconsciously, gestures for Poki to continue. She obliges without looking up, deep in thought, “Three years ago, I was nobody, some waitress in Nevada, drowning in student loan debt for a theater degree that wasn’t getting me anywhere. Toast offered me a deal: three months with his team, running errands and disguising myself as people. He’d pay my rent, give me good food. It seemed alright for a while. Everything always does. My father was a Moroccan businessman, my mother an actress, and my first real job was, well, I’m sure you’ve heard of it.”</p><p>  “The Monaco Diamond Scandal,” he breathes, and suddenly a lightbulb goes off. Poki’s first job on the team and one of the most famous heists in the past decade, it's a legend in their realm. Teenagers sucked into mob life learn the tale, but nobody knows the specifics, and what is known is usually no more than a mythical retelling of half hearted, nearly factual recollections. She had never liked to discuss it when they begged her for details during dinner or in the workout room. She’d never talked about it at all, just that it was her. Poki did bring it up if ever someone foolishly claimed she wasn’t strong enough to carry out a job. They shut up very quickly, jaws flapping uselessly, star struck by the celebrity status Poki was granted with just four words. He understands the reason for her silence now.</p><p>  “I killed him. Had to if I wanted to join the team.”</p><p>  Corpse doesn’t even flinch, “You stayed with Toast?”</p><p>  “Well, I had already pledged him my service. He couldn’t sue me, but he could certainly make life hell for me. And add that to the fact he could spill my secrets at any time, I was screwed.”</p><p>  He clears his throat, “H-how did you get away?”</p><p>  Finally, she makes eye contact without her eyes flitting away, “I got better blackmail.”<br/>
——<br/>
“Hello, Lily,” Corpse greets, shuffling through the narrow aisle to anywhere out of Poki’s hearing range. She fell asleep an hour ago, but he wants to make sure she doesn’t know who he’s on a call with.</p><p>  On the other side of the world, Lily is about to collapse. No, she chants, a repetitive source of calm in the turbulent waters she feels she is certainly drowning in, no, this isn’t happening. </p><p>  “W-what do you need, Cor-Corpse?” She shudders just saying his name, so cold on her tongue. After Michael’s death, they didn’t speak to one another. He tried to apologize, she slammed doors. She walked into the kitchen, he let his pizza get cold on the table as he turned away and left. He’s good at leaving. No strings attached, no stitches left undone, no emotions lingering pathetically.</p><p>  “Nothing. Just wanted to hear you.”</p><p>  “We haven’t spoken in two years! And now you’re calling just to talk to me? No, you want something. I won’t give it to you whatever it is.”</p><p>  Her high voice, normally quite soothing, is shrill, angry, distraught with the memory of her former love still intact, racing through her head.</p><p>  “Then hang up already,” he’s not upset, not even close. He’s just testing how deep her hatred runs and whether or not he will be on the receiving end of the worst of it.</p><p>  “I-I won’t give you satisfaction. You’re going to talk, tell me what you’re really calling for, and I might listen.”</p><p>  Empty threat, he almost sneers, but he refrains again. He needs to approach the situation delicately, despite the grudge he still harbors against her for deserting him when he was most vulnerable.</p><p>  “I’m building the old team back.”</p><p>  “No,” she determines immediately, “never.”</p><p>  “Come on, the job is good. We’re talking billions, okay?”</p><p>  “I’m retired. And aren’t you supposed to be out too?”</p><p>  “Yeah, dead in the water. But I’m not. One last mission, we all get drunk at the end and have a nice time along the way. You can buy a palace with the payout.”</p><p>  “That much?”</p><p>  “More.”</p><p>  “No.”</p><p>  He’s got one more play in his book, risky, no field tests, all or nothing, “It’s what Michael would want.”</p><p>  “You don’t know shit about what he would want. Okay? You lost the right to make those decisions a long time ago.”</p><p>  Of course, it fails him too.</p><p>  “Fair. But come on, I know you feel the itch to get back in the game. You’ve kept all your gear?”</p><p>  Lily glances around her sunroom, the only house without some sort of memorophilia from the old days. She’s got assault rifles in the kitchen, hidden ammunition in the couch cushions, and bombs in her bedroom closet. She’s prepared, to say the least.</p><p>  “Old habits die hard,” she shrugs, kicking her feet up on her coffee table.</p><p>  “Do you know who killed Michael?”</p><p>  Breathing steadily through her nose, Lily answers, “Of course I do.”</p><p>  She pauses, fights off tears as the rush of memories surges forth. Him, bloody limbs, eyes firmly shut, fingers crossed in a silent wish for the future that would never find him. She pictures it, the day he died how she’d been relaxing, happy, hopeful, the morning after when Toast dropped the body beside the staircase and sighed. The burning embers swirling around his possessions. Day of the funeral as they hid, always hiding from the truth. She can almost find the humor in the situation as they gazed from different places. Poki and Rae had been on the roof with binoculars to watch for the wrong sort, their sort, to be fair. Toast, all dark sunglasses and black trenchcoat, couldn’t hide the tear that fell when the two men dropped Michael’s coffin down. He peered from a park bench nearby, pretended not to care, but really, he cared more than half the people who had actually been invited to the funeral. There was Corpse who wasn’t even supposed to be with them that day. He should’ve been destroying evidence, bribing cops, talking up nice girls at the bar until last call who didn’t mind being alibis if it ever came down to it. Lily herself had stared straight ahead, not breaking eye contact with the white flowers people dropped haphazardly on his gravestone. </p><p>  They had made plans to be buried next to each other. But sometimes, most times, really, life doesn’t work out like we intend. It swoops in like a great, big vulture to feast on the remains of our hopes, leaving us fragments of wasted dreams to toss out afterwards. Lily keeps her dreams in the picture by her bedside, her and Michael celebrating with the rest of the team after a successful mission, the only photograph everyone consented to taking. She doesn’t have anything tangible left except that one memory.</p><p>  The line is quiet for so long that Lily almost forgets she is on the phone with someone else, her ragged breathing the only sound.</p><p>  “Well if you ever want to make him pay, you know how to reach me.”</p><p>  He hangs up first. She slides further down her couch, warm tea forgotten in favor of self pity or self loathing rather; they both feel the same in her numbed state.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. The Last-Ditch Effort</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Alternate Chapter Title: The Last Warning</p><p>  In this installment, we meet Techno and Tommy, discover a bit more about Corpse and Sykkuno’s backstories, and meet a heroine facing a tough decision.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>How do you feel about longer chapters? This one is 5000, I think, so I might go lower for the next chapter if that’s what people want.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Corpse grew up poor, and riddled with chronic illness, his peers made him an easy target for bullying. His parents never seemed to care much. At around age twelve, he dropped out of school and took up boxing as an outlet for his anger and anxiety. It worked, and due to his unusually deep voice for his age, nobody really questioned him when he slapped forty dollars on the front desk and demanded to be let in the ring. But his habit of attending local boxing matches and even testing his own skills once in a while soon turned into an addiction of sorts. He’d come home battered and bruised by other, probably stronger men who didn’t care whether he was fifteen or forty. They didn’t see a kid, they saw an opponent whose nose they’d have to bash in to win the top prize. He quickly learned how to dodge punches, dole out a few swipes of his own, and outlast his adversaries in a war of attrition. The dried blood and numerous contusions he left the ring with didn’t bother anyone else, not even his friends and family, so eventually, he became numb to the pain.</p><p>  He was doing alright for himself until he ran into some trouble with a local gang who had been rigging the matches. They would seek out young, inexperienced boxers with low odds for winning and build up their confidence while steadily feeding them steroids or giving them another illegal edge on their competition like blades. Corpse didn’t lack moral soundness, even at sixteen, so he refused the first time the men approached him. However, the second time they propositioned him, it wasn’t so easy to shake them off. He broke their leader’s arm, which landed him in trouble with the whole gang, especially when he outed them to the man who ran the boxing matches.</p><p>  They came after him with full force, and he had no choice but to invest in some protection. He sought out a man who normally sat in the front row, was known to be a high-roller when it came to betting on his favorite boxers, and was also heavily involved with the local crime family. Corpse became a conman, one of the slickest around. At first, he was little more than a servant or personal assistant, but the man soon realized he was cut out for more than running errands and enforcing the will of his crew. Corpse moved up quickly in the ranks until one night, he was brought in on false charges. It wouldn’t be the last time the people he trusted would stab him in the back. He killed everyone in the room and assumed control over the dead man’s gang. </p><p>  It wasn’t hard to control a flock of sheep, as he liked to call him, but he grew bored. The city he grew up in lacked the luster and appeal of alluring places like New York or Los Angeles. He wanted to travel, cut off his roots, and do whatever he felt like doing. So he called up a man named Toast that seemed willing enough to take him under his wing, show him the ropes.</p><p>  Born in Canada, Toast had ties just about everywhere. Of course, over the years, that web would become more difficult to maintain and gradually deplete altogether. He mentored Corpse, treated him like a brother. Toast was always the brains behind their operations, but Corpse was an enforcer, the muscle that could convince anyone to do anything, lest they end up face down in a ditch somewhere. Threats and carrying out said threats enamored him. He ventured further into the realm of darkness and deceit, found it easy to immerse himself within their finely sewn threads of mercenaries, backroom deals, and expensive liquor. </p><p>  He didn’t mind the blood on his hands, so long as it was never his own. In his career, he’d had so many good times, jobs done so perfectly the police couldn’t crack the case within a hundred years. He’d met everyone, from the sweetest nurse to the cruelest CEO. He’d even killed many of them. Nothing bothered him anymore. He lied, cheated, and killed, and he was numb to all of it.</p><p>  Then, he met Sykkuno who blushed at the mention of guns and brushed off compliments like stray rose petals on a white tablecloth. Sykkuno is the only who can bring a well-trained, heartless mercenary to the point of pet-names and nose kisses. He loves Sykkuno, and he’s never let work get in the way of their relationship. Never had to, until he found out about Sykkuno’s double life. See, there’s more to the gentle, kind, considerate man than green knitted scarves and a sunny disposition. He has a dark past that includes but is not limited to organized executions, torture, and grand larceny. When he met Corpse, however, he tried to hide that, but he knew fully well of his boyfriend’s reputation in the underground world. It wasn’t hard to come by the large amount of information regarding his best kills, favorite weapon of choice (a knife for close range murders so that he can maintain eye contact as the hot blood seeps from his target’s fresh wound and drips on his fingers,) even his preferred color (black, obviously.) </p><p>  Sykkuno represents purity, the untouched corner of Corpse’s life that still believes in fairytales and cloud-gazing. He helped him through Michael’s death and the separation of his team in the aftermath. Sykkuno knows when he needs homemade tomato sauce on cavatappi pasta or crimson blood filtering through the sewer when they send someone away to deposit a new body. Sykkuno is wonderful, everything Corpse needs and wants. He can’t kill Sykkuno. So when he finds out Toast is planning to assassinate Sykkuno’s bodyguard, also the one who killed Michael in cold blood, and thereby leaving the pure bundle of cinnamon roll happiness to fend for himself, Corpse can hardly keep his composure before he digs three daggers into the bathroom door and slumps to the ground, promise ring clattering to the blank white tiles.</p><p>  He wants to wipe the smug smile off Toast’s face and replace it, instead, with a crimson grimace. He wants to avenge Sykkuno’s good name. But there’s one sliver, well, more like a whole giant piece, of himself that wants to cut through XQC one ribbon of skin at a time. There’s a sadistic side of him, the part that never stopped longing for the exhilaration, the inescapable high, of a fresh kill, that wants X’s blood to stain the stark white tiles of Sykkuno’s bathroom floor, but he doesn’t want his boy to return to his apartment and see the gore. He can’t subject him to that. No matter how good revenge tastes, it will never replace the feeling of love and joy he finds when he’s near Sykkuno.</p><p>  “Yeah, baby,” he promises, “be home in a day, maybe two.”</p><p>  “I miss you,” Sykkuno whines, and Corpse imagines his sweet pink lips pouting in protest.</p><p>  “I know, but it’s just- there’s a deal here I can’t pass up. It’s a good job.”</p><p>  “If you’d come and work for me, you wouldn’t have to go away. We could be together all the time,” he’d presented the offer many times, pastel ribbon promises lining the edges of his words. He’d vowed to spare no expense decorating his lover’s office, furnishing him a nice house in the Hamptons, whatever would make him stay a little closer to Sykkuno.</p><p>  It seemed nothing would work. Corpse had refused things many times over, from reckless jobs, linking up with rookie mercenaries, or security details that were doomed to fail; he has a larger problem denying Sykkuno’s wishes. He can be very stubborn when he wants something, and right now, he wants Corpse safe and sound in his arms.</p><p>  “You don’t need money. I’ve got plenty for the both of us.”</p><p>  “This isn’t about money.”</p><p>  “Right,” Sykkuno spat bitterly. Everything’s always about money. From the day he came into this world, silver spoon on his raspberry tongue, he’d been taught the facts of life. Everything comes with a price, and if you can’t pay it, well, Sykkuno prefers not to think about that event. He’s only ever known the relentless splendor that spoiled him from such a young age. Ferraris and an Oxford education, solid gold Rolexes and the courtyard by his parent’s manor that flaunts rows of peacocks and prancing ponies. He thought Corpse would be more than willing to travel the world with him, soak in the richness of a life without worry.</p><p>  The first time he brought up the deal had not been very pleasant.</p><p>  “I’m not some goddamn stray pet you can pick up and drop up, carry around in a Prada purse and drive around in your fucking Bentley!” He had shouted, taking in the luxury that Sykkuno lives in, thrives in. </p><p>  Sykkuno had thought about the two of them, drowning in diamonds and decadence, but his dreams were swiftly crushed under the ex-boxer’s fist, “I just want to make sure you’re safe.”</p><p>  “Bullshit!” He had yelled, the first time he’d ever raised his voice with Sykkuno. He’d always treated him like a fragile angel at the top of the Christmas tree, held him delicately, whispered sweetly in his ear while they cuddled on mountains of pillows, “You want to control me.”</p><p>  That has always been Corpse’s worst fear. Control. Society, The Man, corporations. He hates when anyone has complete control over him, but somehow, he let Sykkuno wield total power over him without batting an eye. Until that night, at least.</p><p>  “That’s not true.”</p><p>  “Oh come on!” Corpse had scoffed, turning to walk out of Sykkuno’s office, wondering why he had been there in the first place, “Why can’t you understand I need to be alone?” He asked as his boyfriend began to trail after him.</p><p>  “Bec-because I don’t think your current job is healthy for you! Okay?” The normally mild-mannered, though sometimes devious and incredibly dangerous mafia leader had definitely lost his temper, “You’re being completely irrational. This is so stupid. And I know what you’re going to say!”</p><p>  Corpse had cut in, “Yeah, yeah? You know I’m gonna say that you don’t own me, that you don’t have to deal with the fucking paranoia of hiding your damn face from the whole fucking world? And that your bullshit excuses annoy me! An-and you should stop bothering me with your problems. Find some stupid intern’s life to mess up, I won’t let you fuck up mine!”</p><p>  Sykkuno had fluttered to the ground, a butterfly on broken wings. Lots of responses had leapt to his mind, some curt and hurtful, genuinely apathetic to the other brunette’s feelings at this point, while others pleaded forgiveness and admitted his own guilt in the matter. He had known that they would forget about why they had been fighting anyway. Corpse would bring movies or take him to dinner. They’d escape the underground world that entangled both of their pasts, presents, and futures so. But for now, he was upset and angry and had little control over his emotions. </p><p>  While generally sweet, kind, lovable, and generous to most everyone, Sykkuno could be just as dark as his competitors. With Corpse mad at him, he had been determined to make everyone suffer as much as he was.</p><p>  “Peter, Edison, bring in the captives,” he had ordered from his desk, not sparing a glance up to make eye contact with his subordinates, lest they spot the reddish tint to his puffy eyes.</p><p>  They had followed orders as requested, of course, and hadn’t dared to ask questions about the loud shouting they had heard just minutes ago, nor did they look too hard at their boss’s fidgeting hands or flushed cheeks. The two prisoners had been captured at the docks, attempting to escape town and the bounty Sykkuno had put on their heads, but that would hardly matter in a few moments, he had mused, nothing about their fickle lives would matter. </p><p>  Sykkuno’s desktop is filled with cute stuffed animals, baby giraffe plushies mixed with narwhal beanie babies, but in the top two drawers, he keeps knives and sheaths, guns and bullets, as well as final mementos from past kills. He had selected a sharp dagger with a cobalt blue hilt and a sapphire design to perform the task on this particular night. Slicing their necks at the nerve to end their suffering and screeching at the end would be a gift, a parting mercy that he usually grants those sentenced to execution. Like how during the death of Anne Boleyn, King Henry VIII had the executioner chop her head off with a sword as opposed to the battle axe which would be more painful and prolong the agony with each dull chop. But when he is angry, Sykkuno is no innocent flower who shows mercy to common snails and twigs. He craves vengeance, retaliation. He would never wish harm on his love, so instead, he takes his hatred out on the two men. They flail and beg, but he does not stop. </p><p>  Corpse is numb to killing. Sykkuno is numb to killing. They are a match made in mob hell. Nothing can ever tear them apart. Not the time Corpse found out about X’s involvement in Michael’s death. Not the numerous occasions when the pair’s bloodlust has divided them rather than uniting them under a common goal. Not every single time Sykkuno has attempted to convince Corpse to join his side, though really, he’s already an unofficial member. They gaze upon the city that does not forget them, that will not speak their names past sundown, the city that bears witness to the bodies that pile up every Sunday but does nothing, the city that can do nothing to stop them. They perch on top of the highest building and gaze unbothered as the city pleads for help. So numb to the killing, so apathetic to the cries for mercy. Nothing can bring them down.</p><p>  Brought back down to Earth by his lover’s shallow breathing emitting from his phone, Sykkuno regains composure; he will not break down, “I-I just love you.”</p><p>  “I know,” Corpse drawls, stalling for time, “and I love you too.”</p><p>  He needs to regain energy if they decide to fight again. They won’t, he’s sure, but there’s always the tingle of a sensation that signals a demise is imminent. Old mercenary habits, he attributes the instinct to.</p><p>  “Well then you understand that I want you to be safe. And you were safe back when-“</p><p>  “Safe but not happy. Yes, we were together and that’s great, but I need this. You don’t understand.”</p><p>  Sykkuno understands better than anyone. He knows the adrenaline like racing down a burning building parallel to the ground, on glass wings as they leap from problem to solution and back again. He could plead for his permanent return, but his wish would go unfulfilled. It’ll all be alright as long as this new job of Corpse’s doesn’t fall through.</p><p>  “Just don’t die.”</p><p>  “I’ll be fine.”</p><p>  “Say it enough times and maybe we’ll both start to believe it,” he rolls his eyes. Conversation over.<br/>
——<br/>
Everything comes with a price tag. Sykkuno learned this early on, and it became a feature in the film cinema of his mind. Scene One: his father with a bloody shirt and lipstick stains on his early morning stubble. His mother is away in Paris on business, which is a phrase he will soon learn means less business, more killing spree, more coverups, more callous words from jealous housewives, dropped hints at promiscuity directed at the woman who birthed him, vapid smiles, turning to alcohol to soothe the incurable pain. Scene Two: His mother is beautiful and foolish and the perfect mob boss wife. His father deposits her in the river, carelessly like a bounced check one evening, and the servants surprise him with a trip to the cape and a nice lobster bisque, so he supposes it’s a fair trade.</p><p>  Scene Three: He doesn’t want for anything in his first ten years of life. By eleven, sure, he seeks affection in all possible forms, even when affection isn’t actually what he thinks it is. Two more schoolboys are found washed up by the riverbank, silt and sand weighing down their lifeless bodies. Nobody knows how they got there, at least, nobody will ever tell if they do snoop a little too far into the family affairs. But Sykkuno has a suspicion it’s something to do with the blood on the manor’s pathway leading to the kitchen entrance and the knife Finn, the British lad who can pass for sixteen or thirty-six depending on the day, struggled to hide in the flower bouquet. </p><p>  Sykkuno is smart, he catches onto new concepts rather quickly, but it isn’t until age twelve that he considers his father as the true enemy, as a killer. In scene five, a hostile takeover ensues in which Sykkuno’s cousin Dream, the one they ought to call Nightmare, but I’ll get to that bit later, ascends to the top of the family food chain. The lake on the other side of town receives five more bodies, and Sykkuno will swear they don’t look like him, bear no resemblance at all to his father and cousins and aunt.</p><p>  By fifteen he is running the family company, a carefully put together facade for the horrid services the family actually conducts in the dead of night or by first dawn’s light, whichever suits them. He follows old Abe Lincoln’s advice of “keep your friends close, and your enemies closer,” takes on Dream as a vice-president and sends the elder relation on a trial run. </p><p>  Dream wasn’t born into the psychopathically inclined family he grew up in. His adoptive parents found him appealing, good for publicity to distract from the fact his mother couldn’t bear children, strong enough to run the company one day when his father faded out of the picture. He steadily became the prodigal son, and unlike Sykkuno, his parents held no qualms about thrusting him headfirst into the murderous center of the underworld that their “type of people” tends to flourish in. With broad shoulders and a wise gaze, he worked his way up, starting with odd jobs, not relying on his parent’s name or fortune. He is determined and with that aspect, comes arrogance. He sets his sights too high, soars too close to the lovely sun, cuts down too many trees without a plan to remedy the barren landscape. You get the point. He crashes. Icarus falls. </p><p>  Eventually, his cockiness falters, and he must run to Sykkuno, tail between his legs, and plead for a job. Lucky for him, the boy was already planning on giving him one; all he needed to was ask. Simply put, Sykkuno is beautiful and special like a glass ornament sought after by the richest people and tends to attract the wrong sort of crowd. Dream prevents that. He was one of the first to recommend X as a bodyguard. He is the one who assigned “alphabet boy”- the nickname he received very early on in his career because “slayer” or “goblin” never seemed to stick- the task of killing Michael. He is the one who tore Corpse’s old team apart. He is the one who tore so many lives to shreds for his own personal gain.</p><p>  Dream the betrayer. Dream the man one wrong footfall away from six feet under. Corpse vows to be the one to make him trip.<br/>
——<br/>
The air is frigid, and Poki is at peace. With a red nose and numb fingers, she is not lost or trapped in a free falling flight simulation. She thinks the figure of speech makes sense to pair with her current situation. When the plane docked, Corpse had run off somewhere, a flimsy excuse dying on his lower lip. She shook her head to imply that he didn’t have to explain anything to her.</p><p>  In a roundabout way, her thoughts turn to leaving. It’s what she’s good at, of course, hopping on a plane and deserting everything. She doesn’t need to be here. She’s got a full bank account- well, not as full in recent years but enough to sustain her lifestyle nonetheless. There is nothing Corpse can offer her that she doesn’t already have. Except closure. Guilt lingers long after wounds are bandaged and blood has dried. Michael’s body had just dropped when she broke down.</p><p>  Find Rae, abandon mission, no time. In the middle of  detonating a bomb, Rae had been frantic. Jittery from morning coffee, eyes wide against the darkness, she’d been startled by Poki’s interruption.</p><p>  “What are you doing? Don’t you have to-to, I don’t know…” she had trailed off. The look of anguish on her best friend’s face had said it all. Rae had disconnected the wires. “Okay, okay.”</p><p>  “Yeah.”</p><p>  Poki had limped closer: she’d twisted her ankle in the sprint to find her companion. Placing an arm on her shoulder, she’d said, “Michael’s dead. I-I was watching Corp-Corpse. From the rooftop. He’s dead.”</p><p>  “Oh.”</p><p>  “Yeah,” she had repeated.</p><p>  There had been nothing left to say. Collecting her belongings and straightening her beanie, she hadn’t breathed a sigh or shed a tear. The endorphins had still been pumping from sprinting down narrow hallways, bullets bouncing away so close to her that she could hear the whoosh, but the pain had overridden her senses an hour later. </p><p>  The two had met up with Corpse who had been holding Michael’s body entirely on one shoulder, unable to feel anything other than loss. Toast had arrived next, a dead look in his dark brown eyes. In the elevator, nobody had spoken. There had been no thoughts- at least, no coherent ones. Poki had been surrounded by death while Rae had been overwhelmed by anger, fear, and the inability to properly express her emotions to anyone. She had been consumed by the terror and the grief. Toast had only known failure, and Corpse felt dead inside. His eyes had been wandering but then they had stayed trained on Michael’s arms, draped over him like a ragdoll.</p><p>  The five had stumbled into the building’s lobby like disgruntled graveyard shift employees. They hadn’t belonged. So out of place, so lost. Close to slumping down to the pristine tiles and never leaving, not caring whether or not anyone ever found them.</p><p>  Broken and finally letting the pain overtake her, Poki stays because while she is good at leaving with no remorse after, she desperately needs to stay. For closure. For the only true family she left behind.<br/>
——<br/>
Flickering lights swarm around a petite girl, creating sparkly images in her gorgeous, expressive eyes. Her hair, tied in two braids, twists around her shoulders, dances across her collarbones. It is obvious that she is very powerful, glamorous, and just a tad bit sad.</p><p>  “Rae,” her fingernails click on the table; she’s counting the beats like a doctor with a stethoscope checking a heartbeat.</p><p>  She barely acknowledges her name, formed like a request in itself. Instead, she gives it a curt response, “No. Go home.”</p><p>  “Rae.”</p><p>  “Still my name. Still no.”</p><p>  “I don’t think you understand how important this is.”</p><p>  “I have sacrificed too much. I am aware of the consequences if I don’t, but I just can’t. I-I could mess up again, and honestly, I can’t have everyone hate me again.”</p><p>  “No one hates you. Just listen to me.”</p><p>  “I’ve listened to you for my whole life. I’m making my own decisions now. I’m not going.”</p><p>  “You have to.”</p><p>  She practically snarls, “Get out now before I make you.”</p><p>  “Just-just give it a shot.”</p><p>  “Toast,” Rae’s features soften, “I told you: I’m done.”</p><p>  “Poki and Corpse will be there.”</p><p>  “I’m not- I won’t- I can’t go back. Not after what we did. How do you live with yourself?”</p><p>  Their sibling-like bond has been tainted over the years. Made stronger through trust and need for human companionship, it is starting to falter.</p><p>  “I made the call already.” He reveals, a casual shrug punctuating his statement. Her face drops into a glare, “I told them you’d be there.”</p><p>  “You’re lying. And even so, I don’t have to go. I won’t do it.”</p><p>  He leaves. She’ll be on the next flight out, he’s sure. Rae is anything but predictable, yet somehow, he knows her so well.<br/>
——<br/>
He dons a crisp black Italian tuxedo for the occasion. The tie is crimson and nearly the exact shade of blood; it won’t look too out of place with splattered red patches on it. But Corpse hates ruining his nice suits. He’s only dressing up because he wants to make an impression, not a lethal laceration.</p><p>  Corpse also flips knives when he gets nervous, which when paired with his usual quirks like murder, seems rather ordinary. His thoughts flit away from anxious trepidation as he contemplates whether or not the Pope frowns upon blades in church. Probably. Maybe not. Either way, he’s committed enough sins that one more blasphemous act is merely a notch on his belt, nothing terribly grievous.</p><p>  He wonders about the afterlife a lot. His life has always been hanging from a thin string; it’s never scared him before. But now, he’s frightened by the possibility of never seeing his home again, like he’s even got one anymore. There are people relying on him, expecting things of him. He doesn’t know what that's like or even how to deal with the added pressure. </p><p>  The walk to the cathedral is long. His fingers twitch like an addict with their fix just a few inches away but so far out of reach. The cobblestone shifts under his feet, wobbling, and the brush around him is haunting, casting shadows, promising doom.</p><p>  There’s a man at the altar, looking the very picture of piety, throwing his worship around in the cathedral like rice at a wedding, but his mind is consumed with other, less unselfish thoughts. The stained glass blows rainbow smoke around him, masking the figure in a whirl of color and mystery. Corpse knows immediately he’s found the right envoy.</p><p>  “Still doing Dream’s dirty work?”</p><p>  “You’d think, wouldn’t you?” The reply is vague, stiff, leaving little room for follow-up questions. Corpse knows his kind; they’re all the same, even if they like to pretend otherwise. They claim to protest Dream’s mistreatment, but they all run like frightened cattle back. Corpse is well-aware of his reputation, the lime-green-favoring faceless fraud. It will take time and effort to overthrow him. Effort is not the problem: he has plenty of hardworking people on his side. It’s time that is running short.</p><p>  “Two tides and a skipping stone down. The heavens stare,” he murmurs, barely a whisper, knowing the echo that will be thrown about in the empty hall, fully aware of the spy hiding in the upper balcony. He points upwards with the hand not buried in his rosary. Speaking in code will help them, and Techno will understand his meaning.</p><p>  Corpse says in a roundabout way, you should stop, you know what will happen.</p><p>  “Hector will run scared. He will pay; I will not care.”</p><p>  I will not back down.</p><p>  “Ah, but you know about the chariot ride?”</p><p>  Neither will we.</p><p>  “So, Achilles mourns.”</p><p>  Your lover’s blood is on your hands.</p><p>  “And Patroclus weeps. But we will meet again in Elysium.”</p><p>  I doubt it. I won’t have it.</p><p>  “Achilles failed while the world looked on.”</p><p>  We shall see if you falter, and I’ll be watching closely.</p><p>  “The dawn breaks.”</p><p>  My team leaves soon, and we’ll show you by nightfall tomorrow.</p><p>  “Theseus waits for you then.”</p><p>  No translation, Corpse thinks. Techno has broken the code. Something is amiss, for who else is he communicating with?</p><p>  “Achilles knows no Theseus.”</p><p>  Who the hell is Theseus?</p><p>  “Hypnos and Hephaestus do. Theseus will perish if he continues,” Techno signals upward once more. Corpse flashes the sharp end of a blade to the delegated negotiator.</p><p>  Techno repeats himself through gritted teeth, “Theseus will perish if he continues.”</p><p>  “I don’t,” Corpse whispers firmly, “understand you.”</p><p>  “He’s not talking to you,” a distinctly British accent that doesn’t care about echoing through the high ceilinged room commands their attention behind them. The tawny haired lad holds up a bow. Rather archaic, Corpse thinks, but he’s learned that being on the wrong end of any weapon can be dangerous. It’s a smart move too, on the young boy’s part, to bring a long-range weapon. Maybe he knows Corpse is unarmed, bar the palm sized blade in his pocket.</p><p>  “If you really want to kill me, you should’ve stayed up there,” he knows it’s wrong to provoke the enemy with a bow aiming at him, but he also knows he’s right and with that information, he’s sure the boy won’t shoot him.</p><p>  “It’s not you we’re after,” he speaks confidently though he’s shaking a bit, “it’s Dream.”</p><p>  “We?” He questions, noticing Techno’s fingers flurrying about while his hands themselves stay still. He’s wondering whether to run or not, face cowardice or interrogation.</p><p>  The youngster puffs out his chest, standing tall, “Yes, my associate and I are currently your biggest rival.”</p><p>  “Aw, you should stay on your own side of the playground. The adults are talking right now.”</p><p>  “I’m not messing around,” the boy brandishes his loaded weapon.</p><p>  Corpse is an expert at buying himself time and getting out of tense, nearly hopeless situations, “If you’re going to kill me, can’t I at least know your name?”</p><p>  His expression turns from determined rebellion to distrust then confusion, and he gestures to Techno with his head, “He should be able to tell you that.”</p><p>  “Tommy thinks himself some kinda hero,” the man in the red cloak sneers, “thinks by carrying out Dream’s will he might make something of himself.”</p><p>  Tommy, as his name has now been revealed, is disgruntled, fiery red anger throwing his movements into overdrive. He fingers the bowstring, contemplates releasing pent-up frustration on his enemy’s faces, but he’s only got one shot before he needs to reload, “How dare you! We are against Dream and all that he stands for. H-he is a dictator!”</p><p>  “So you’ll replace one tyrannical nut-job with another?”</p><p>  Corpse wonders who they could be talking about. This lad, Tommy, is clearly new to the underground way of things, the code and law set forth by their predecessors. He brought a bow to a gunfight for crying out loud. But he seems loyal to whoever his leader is, </p><p>  “I’m doing the right thing. History will remember us as the good guys.”</p><p>  “History won’t remember any of us. It hardly matters whether you are kind hearted or malicious.” Techno heaves a sigh, not budging, “Put down the bow, Tommy.”</p><p>  “No!” He shouts, and Corpse remarks internally that he likes the kid already: standing up to Techno takes nerve.</p><p>  “You want to be a hero, Tommy? You want to be a hero so bad you’ll die for Wilbur, someone you think cares about you? They’re all using you, Tommy. You are weak.”</p><p>  “Shut up! Shut up, shut up! Just stop,” his head drops.</p><p>  “Come on, Tommy. You don’t actually think you can do anything with that pathetic bow. Do you?”</p><p>  Tommy’s finger slips. His arrow stabs into the altar, three feet off from smacking into human flesh. With a stony glare, Techno steps closer to the boy.</p><p>  “You tried, Tommy, you tried. Too little, too late.”</p><p>  He slumps to the ground as the man with the pig mask takes his time leaving. Corpse’s heartbeat slows: the excitement of the moment, of nearly dying, has subsided. He steps closer to the body collapsed on the floor.</p><p>  “Are you alright?”</p><p>  “No,” he wipes his eyes although no tears have fallen.</p><p>  “It’s okay. I’m sure your intentions were good. What happened?”</p><p>  “He k-killed my brother like his life meant nothing. I swore to avenge him, but I failed,” Tommy admits, shedding two tears for the memory of his adoptive kin.</p><p>  “Dream?”</p><p>  “Well, not exactly. I-I just…” He trails off, “What are you doing here?”</p><p>  “Techno is an old friend.” Lie, “I needed to see him about a job.” Half-truth, “He’s offering me protection.” Truth.</p><p>  Tommy nods, still showing signs of acute self-loathing after his disappointing performance, “And I assume he said no?”</p><p>  “You’re right. If I could have- if he didn’t...if he had said yes, things would be okay. But now, now I have to go back to my team and explain that I failed.”</p><p>  “What kind of job?”</p><p>  “Top-secret.”</p><p>  “Ah, I understand.”</p><p>  He doesn’t. Nobody understands, Corpse snarls internally. This is his mission, and it was a mistake to run to Techno. Of course he knew the man had already pledged loyalty to Dream under the pretense of technically being an independent party, but he hoped his persuasive skills could make something work. It doesn’t matter anymore; the deal had fallen through before he even woke up this morning. He isn’t good at comforting people, so he just stands above Tommy, attempting to express concern without sounding condescending. He’s not doing well.</p><p>  “I wasn’t supposed to be here.” Tommy reveals, “Wilbur said it’d be fine. And-and it’s not.” He looks pained for a moment, conflict morphing his features into anger then grief and eventually resolution, “I need to tell you something.”</p><p>  He stands up on wobbly legs. Inside, he is in turmoil, and his mind is fighting with itself. If he reveals his information, he could save many lives, but he could also betray his friends. He is loyal to a fault, but he is not a killer.</p><p>  “You’re walking into a trap.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. The Last Will and Testament</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>The team is finally together, and the plan is laid out. While Corpse grapples with the implication of Tommy’s warning, the others come to terms with their own fears, shortcomings, and pasts that can’t be forgotten.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So there is a line where an intimate relationship is implied between Poki and Ash, but I don’t ship them, even as a joke. Ash is angry and saying anything she can to hurt someone, so don’t take this seriously. In fact, don’t take any of this fic seriously. It’s a fanfic; I’m just a fan, and I just like writing about some of my favorite people. I don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable. Please be wary that this chapter deals with death. If you are triggered by that, please don’t read.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He wakes up, tired like usual, annoyed, no change there, and wanting to go back to bed as soon as possible. No sleep for the damned, he supposes, getting dressed and shaving. Perhaps he should have confessed at the church, bettered his odds of slipping into the heavenly pearl gates, he admits, but he’s not Catholic, not even sure how Catholicism works, so he brushes the idea away, cheerily pouring himself some green tea from a recipe Ethan had given him when they were still close friends. He receives a phone call around 7:58. He knows exactly who’s calling, muscle memory says decline, red button, move on. Fighting his instinct, he accepts the call.</p><p>  “Turbulent, isn’t it?” The familiar deep voice welcomes him. He wants to leap across the phone line and remind him they should talk in person, not when there are so many people that could and very well might listen in. He doesn’t want another repeat of the Tommy experience.</p><p>  “The way the Fates work? Yes, yes it is,” more code, more thinly veiled threats and accusations, too much to deal with too early in the morning. Hang up, he says to himself. Just give him some bitter remark, wipe away the blooming curiosity, and move on with his morning. That’s what he wants to do, but it’s not what he’s going to do.</p><p>  “The nightmares lurk. Hypnos guides your mortal soul. The Lethe around Nyx’s domain.”</p><p>  Dream isn’t happy. He’ll see you soon, probably around midnight when he tosses you into the river if you’re not careful.</p><p>  “Let them. Then tell Aergia I’ll be home soon.”</p><p>  He never is. I’m not busy.</p><p>  “Hector is growing restless. Warn your erastes.”</p><p>  Your chances of killing X are lowering. Does the boy toy know?</p><p>  “Dolos’s will.”</p><p>  Obviously not, you fucking dolt.</p><p>  “So be it.”</p><p>  Tell him, or I will.</p><p>  “Vale, ferrum in.”</p><p>  Goodbye, the blade.</p><p>  Corpse doesn’t get scared easily, not with cool perspiration dripping down his neck as the barrel of a pistol stares down his left ear. His body doesn’t dare quiver in fear when his sniper misfires, though it’s only happened once in record. Despite all of that, something about Techno having secure information startles him, especially since he doesn’t know whose side he’s on. Loyal to a fault but bloodthirsty and greedy, the man is a wild card, two jumps away from choosing a gang, but everyone knows he’s in it for his own personal gain and will give out arms and ammunition to anyone or parley with your greatest enemy to stab you in the back. He claims to be peaceful, his own boss, not one to follow a pack, but he is vicious and just waiting to fall in line, like everyone else. Furthermore, Techno is a loose cannon that certainly doesn’t care about Corpse’s anonymity or emotions. If it’s in his best interests, he will not stop to consider the consequences.</p><p>  Corpse dresses himself casually, prepared for a meeting with his associates. When he arrives at the specified location, a small brunette girl is already near the head of the table.</p><p>  “Hey, Poki, who’s all coming?”</p><p>  She looks down then back up, fiddling nervously with her shirt hem, “Shouldn’t you know that? Nevermind. Toast, Rae, uh, who else?”</p><p>  “Ludwig should be arriving.”</p><p>  “Who’s that?”</p><p>  “An old friend,” a wry smile punctuates his explanation. Poki shrugs and directs her gaze everywhere and nowhere. She’s so close to running away from her problems; cowardice threatens to win out as she imagines ducking out of the firing line. But she is brave and so she stays.</p><p>  “I don’t want to be here,” a voice echoes from outside. It is familiar, causing both parties inside the building to suck in a deep breath and tense up.</p><p>  Toast’s unique accent is heard next, “You know you love to be here, Rae. It’s the action, isn’t it?”</p><p>  She doesn’t respond, distracted by the sight of two of her former partners sitting at the table, staring her down.</p><p>  “Hey,” she greets, pulling out a chair opposite Poki. Toast sits beside her, implying that though he has enlisted Corpse and accepts his choices, he does not plan on welcoming everyone back with open arms, especially not Poki who deserted them at their weakest point and took every opportunity to weaken the team.</p><p>  “Heard you pissed off Felix,” he comments casually.</p><p>  Corpse rolls his eyes. Leave it to Toast to make a biting remark as his greeting, “Not really. Just wasn’t working out.”</p><p>  “Then who’s backing this operation?”</p><p>  “You assigned me the mission.” He points out, “So isn’t it your job to find someone?”</p><p>  Toast shuts up. Lud arrives shortly after, and a petite girl with pigtails and a backpack. Her name is Ash, and it suits her: she has a tendency to burn things and leave nothing but her namesake behind.</p><p>  “Why won’t you just tell us what’s going on here?” Rae asks, stirring up more nods and affirmations because Corpse has not exactly told them anything except for the large sum of money some guy’s head on a stick will get them. It’s almost comical, too, that everyone has a different perspective and a completely alternate idea of what the job is and what they are supposed to be accomplishing.</p><p>  He looks down, shifts his gaze to the floor and back to the left wall, and rubs at his neck, “Uh, we’re going to kill XQC.”</p><p>  His statement garners various responses, each vastly different. Rae grins, bloodlust in her eyes as she continues to polish her dagger. Poki doesn’t look like anything; she’s grieving inside and reliving the grim day Michael died but is making certain nobody can tell how sad she really is. Ludwig is nonchalant, and Ash looks vaguely nauseous: she and X have always had bad blood between them.</p><p>  “Isn’t that what we all want?” Corpse looks around at the faces of his friends and those that are just a step away from being an enemy, “To get rid of all the guilt, the burden, that we’ve held for all these years? We can finally put Michael’s killer in his grave. That’s good.”</p><p>  It is clear that while everyone shares this sentiment,  they do not share the fervor with which Rae wants to see X’s blood stain her palms or the passion that Corpse shows when it comes to avenging their lost teammate. Toast, on the other hand, is docile for once. He reclines in his chair, one hand tapping a steady beat on the table. No uncouth words find their way out of his mouth. He is at peace finally, even though he is in the midst of betraying his best friend. He wasn’t always the villain. In fact, he believes wickedness is created in someone, not innate. Like energy, it can be neither created nor destroyed.</p><p>  Toast is a simple man with simple plans. A bright scholar, he was labeled as gifted and then as a waste of potential, a burnt out excuse of a student. He was constantly berated for possessing gifts that others desired, but he’d never asked for them, never denied them to his classmates or colleagues. People claimed he squandered his brilliance in favor of goofing off and daydreaming. Hardly. In fact, he was building an empire. </p><p>  He’d never been a sickly child, but that changed as he ventured into adulthood. He’s now plagued by nosebleeds, muscle tremors, joint pains, and broken bones. His wild life of fast cars, high-stakes missions, and skydiving changed. His illnesses and imparities need to be kept under wraps, and the only threat to his confidentiality is Imane, a woman he believed had walked out of his life two years ago.</p><p>  Too many deaths. His first real essay was a book report on The Tell Tale Heart. The first sentence of this paper was “It takes a cold heart to murder,” but after years of suffocating the life out of people, he has realized there is no frigid temperature associated with gravestones, just human perception. He has never liked being human, the mushy feelings and easily broken flesh. He is no longer cold or indifferent, just broken. Broken like a shattered icicle on a pristine marble countertop with no way to go but down. He is melting fast; there’s nothing left to do but to take everyone else down with him.</p><p>  “What’s the plan, Corpse?” Ash speaks up, her face devoid of her normally charming smile. The humor has drained from her beautiful face. Now, she is cold like stone and dangerous like a loaded gun.</p><p>  “This is our mark.” He explains, unfurling a large blueprint and using magnets to clip it to a whiteboard, “Two blocks away from the bank. There will be a robbery the same night as our job. Ash will carry the fake heist out.”</p><p>  Rae grumbles internally. She knows Ash’s work, knows it well enough to understand that while she is certainly the best equipped individual with the skill necessary to carry out the operation, the girl is a loose cannon. Despite her protests, she does not object; this is not her mission to intervene on. Every assignment is high risk, high reward, and sometimes, the money wins out against the likelihood of failure.</p><p>  “A few smoke bombs and something to pop open the vault won’t be too much for you?”</p><p>  The corners of Ash’s mouth quirk up, “Of course.”</p><p>  “Good, we can discuss the details after this meeting. Moving on, I’ll be here,” he points to the third floor of the building where their hit will be, “with Poki and Rae. Ludwig,” Corpse turns to the English major turned detective, “we’ll need you to make sure no members of your force intervene with our operation.”</p><p>  Lud gets a look in his eyes like a deer in the headlights, “What? I mean, you said- I thought I was just here to observe? Deal with fallout, right? I’m not qualified to be out there with you guys.”</p><p>  “It’s not too hard. You’ll be fine, and I can explain everything in greater detail if you like.”</p><p>  Corpse’s simple persuasion skills accomplish their job, and Ludwig submits, head in his hands, wondering where he went wrong to end up not only in a room with some of the most wanted criminals but to be on the verge of becoming their accomplice. He is foolish and should be home with a cup of tea, not in the middle of shark infested waters.</p><p>  “Toast. I’ll need you to watch the door when we get in. We don’t need any unexpected visitors finding out what’s going on.”</p><p>  The man inclines his head, tipping an imaginary hat, “Sure.”</p><p>  “Yeah, well,” Poki glances up, “make sure if you say you’re gonna hold them off, you stick to your word. Wouldn’t want more of our deaths on your hands.”</p><p>  Toast doesn’t flinch. He is a statue that will not break despite the erosion of cruel, ruthless remarks. Certainly, he is someone who can take what he gives out, and right now, he feels as though he deserves her spite. His hands do feel leathery, and he knows the smell of pennies and the sound they make when dropped callously. There is blood all over him, and he knows it, used to revel in it. He cannot manage to smile anymore.</p><p>  “Who gets to kill him?”</p><p>  Of course it’s Rae who pipes up first with the question on everyone’s mind.</p><p>  “Whoever gets there first.”</p><p>  A few murmurs circle the room. Challenges fly from seat to seat. Several scathing remarks that degrade their competitiors and point out specific qualifications that they lack and remind their new adversaries of their prowress in their respective field land in certain spots around the table. Corpse is almost proud of the way his team is just on the verge of tearing each other apart, but not quite. It’s nice to incite chaos every once in a while.</p><p>  Soon everyone files out of the room in pairs. Lud is followed by Toast outside while Poki and Corpse opt to have a private discussion in an adjacent room, and subsequently, Rae and Ash choose to stay inside the meeting room.</p><p>  “Ash,” she corners her opponent near the exit, “what brings you here? You don’t usually associate with us.”</p><p>  It’s a fact, and Ash knows exactly what it means: I don’t want you here, and if I have my way, your stay with us will be over very soon.</p><p>  “I owed a favor to my boss. I guess you must know something about that, right?” Her voice is pretty as is she, but her words are pointed and poisonous, “I mean, come on, what did Toast have to bribe you with to get you here?”</p><p>  Rae grits her teeth and regains control of the conversation, “He isn’t my boss, and nothing, it’ll be payment enough to watch X pay for his crimes. No offense, but that job in New Zealand was absolutely terrible. Fired way too soon, lost two of your own, and had to retreat early? Couldn’t be me, but I’m sure you tried your best.”</p><p>  She did, Ash reminds herself, try her best, but somehow, Rae’s team had gotten to the helipad first. After that, all that was left for her was pink dust. No millionaire’s pockets to loot. Just pastel stained fog sweeping the skyline. She puts on a false smile because she will not let herself be bested again, not even if they’re on the same team.</p><p>  “None taken. That was a long time ago, though, so maybe you’re a little rusty.”</p><p>  “I wouldn’t count on it.”</p><p>  Rae has turned her back, but Ash can’t help herself from taunting her as she retreats in a sickeningly sweet tone, “That’s not what Poki said last night. She was very eager to tell me about all your shortcomings.”</p><p>  Suddenly, the air is knocked out of her as Rae shoves her against the wall rudely, as if there’s a nice way to shove someone into a brick wall. Her small stature normally works in her favor, but in this case, it is decidedly a hindrance, especially with Rae’s combat boots giving her an edge in height and pure anger being an incentive to quiet down.</p><p>  “Don’t even mention her name to me,” the woman with two braids snarls. She doesn’t even need to hiss a threat at Ash; the promise of a consequence if she rebels against her wishes is already hanging in the air between them.</p><p>  “Why?” Ash quirks an eyebrow innocently, further infuriating Rae who is now gripping the fabric of her blouse and shoving her harder against the wall. The bomb specialist cannot think. Her blood is racing hotly through her body, and she begins to entertain the possibility that Ash is right. Maybe she is out of practice and well past her expiration date. She has no business being here, and she shouldn’t have thrown out the plane tickets to Cancun. She should be on a beach sunbathing, but she’s here, dealing with the ramifications of her actions from several years ago.  “You’re not jealous, are you?”</p><p>  Ash smirks. Though she is clearly at a disadvantage, she is winning by a long shot. She’s younger, better at her occupation than Rae, and everyone knows it, even if they don’t acknowledge it often. Her pink lips curl into a self satisfied grin. It’s been a long time since she’s had so much fun.</p><p>  “Rae, what are you doing?” Comes a gruff shout from the doorway. Standing looking none too pleased, Corpse remembers why he used to only work solo. Team members fighting is practically inevitable and never a good look.</p><p>  “It’s too early for this,” she grumbles, finally letting go of the smaller girl and dropping her to the ground. Ash promptly brushes off her white silk shirt and pretends not to be a little giddy that Rae is getting scolded.</p><p>  Corpse stands tall and folds his arms, “Get yourself a coffee and cool down.”</p><p>  “Oh, save it for someone who cares. I don’t respect you, remember that,” she spits out, but Rae does leave with her head held high.</p><p>  “Have a nice day, Rae. Really, it’s been too long,” Ash teases, and both girls’ eyes flash as they meet.</p><p>  “You won’t make it in prison.” Toast blows air through his teeth, “Pretty boy like you? Wouldn’t even last a day. And we can always have something arranged that will shorten your stay to less than that.”</p><p>  Lud jams his hands into his pockets and stops picking at a loose thread upon deciding it gives off the impression of being too nervous, not a good look, “What’s that supposed to mean?”</p><p>  “Don’t fuck this up.”</p><p>  It’s simple. Don't mess it up. Don’t stutter or falter under pressure. He can do this, he repeats, a steady mantra that doesn’t quite do its task of keeping his mind calm and focused. He’s never been apart of something like this, so big and carrying its fair share of consequences if they fail, if he fails. There’s a lot of pressure on him, and he’s not sure he can handle it. He can’t disappoint them.</p><p>  “Hey, Lud,” Rae gives a slight wave. He doesn’t need his investigative skills to alert him to the fact that she is angry. In a cartoon, steam would be circling her head and pooling from her ears.</p><p>  “Rae, right?” She nods, not surprised that he knows her name, “Yeah, in Toronto, a while back, I was on a business trip, and the hotel blew up beside me. Nobody ever got any leads.”</p><p>  “Maybe I had something to do with it. But that’s not what I want to talk about. Here and now. What are you doing here? What is he bribing you with?”</p><p>  He stutters, “W-well, it’s a-a favor. Because we- he, uh, helped me. So he expressed interest in thi-this project and that’s all. Yeah, that’s it.”</p><p>  “Okay. A favor to an old friend has you risking not only your life but ours too?” She cocks her hip, not budging from her stance. If he runs, he’s a coward. If Ludwig stays, he’ll have to tell her the truth. She isn’t letting him leave.</p><p>  “Actually, I don’t have any friends. Well...I have one friend, but I guess I lied about, yeah, it being a favor. I just- I work on the force maybe seventy hours a week, not a lot of fun going on there. And Corpse is a nice guy so every so often, he’ll give me a good lead, something worthy.”</p><p>  “You wanna kill XQC?”</p><p>  “Y-yeah, who doesn’t? That’s what we’re all here for, right?”</p><p>  “Just making sure,” she glances at him sideways, “you don’t think you’re getting a paycheck, do you?”</p><p>  “Of course not. I just- it’s fun, y’know?”</p><p>  “Fun? Right. Sure, I get that. I’ll see you around,” Rae nodded, satisfied with the results of her interrogation and having successfully sparked fear in the opposition. She speeds away in a red convertible as Lud counts down the moments before he has to return to the mundanity of his everyday life. Just like all good things, his tranquility is over too soon, and he takes off in the police car parked just far enough away to quell suspicion.</p><p>  After breaking up the fight between the two girls, Corpse finds Toast, alone after Lud had sped away in his expensive car.</p><p>  “Talk to me, Toast.” He demands when he sees the man sagging against some cinder blocks.</p><p>  Though normally he’d put up a fuss about his reluctance to discuss his personal life with Corpse, someone he has made clear has not earned the right to do so with him, he gives in and tiredly talks, “I have a blistering cut on my leg. See.”</p><p>  He examines the laceration, and true to his word, it looks like a burn wound with bubbling redness on the surface and a gruesome interior and maybe a hint of a bone that is visible, though it really shouldn’t be.</p><p>  “Is that it? You can get that checked out easy.”</p><p>  “I have,” Toast sighs, “and the doctor thinks it’s infected. I can’t tell her where I got it. I can’t tell her I was in Taiwan last year gathering blackmail for some petty job because that’s where I’ve fallen down to in this world, and some asshole ambassador from Dubai or wherever the hell caught me in his shower with a recording of- anyway, it doesn’t matter. What matters is he sliced me open with a dirty knife, and because I was so focused on the job and not slipping up, blowing my cover, and losing the only good job I had left, I didn’t tell anyone. Now I can’t tell her that he chased me down for four blocks until I passed out, and he could’ve done worse if the authorities hadn’t shown up. Never there when you need ‘em, of course, just there to clean up after.”</p><p>  Toast glumly pauses to let Corpse have a go at consoling him, but it’s useless: he knows that the story is not about the cut or the infection or even the job in Taiwan. He shakes his head slightly and beckons him to continue.</p><p>  “I’m dying. One way or another because the doctor is going to amputate my leg since I let it get this bad, and if I don’t have a leg, well, what’s the point of going anymore. So I didn’t tell them. I couldn’t tell them. Because you don’t understand until you do, and right now, it’s just you and me, and we’re the only ones who understand. We’re the same. For right now in this moment when I need you, we are the exact same.</p><p>  “Nobody else gets it, you know? They just don’t, and it’s not because they’re ignorant. They’re just inexperienced and different. Like Rae or Poki,” he lists with a hint of melancholy longing in his voice, “they can run off anytime. Buy cottages in Denmark or pack up and drive off to wherever. They can leave this life behind. But you and me, we’re stuck here for the rest of our lives, chasing after who we used to be, who we wanna be, what we’ll never be again.”</p><p>  Corpse understands that. He knows what it’s like to sprint for his life, jumping from second floor balconies, swinging around parking meters, chasing the adrenaline. It intoxicates him in a way nothing can and nothing ever will. The blood coursing through him, lungs contracting, pulse throbbing in his fingertips as he lifts his arms to keep pumping, push harder, try, try. Nothing will ever come close. It’s almost poetic in a way, but neither is a writer, and frankly, both of them could care less about encapsulating their existence in some white pages with flawed grammar and hand cramps from sketching their life stories. They live in the moment, here and now, and wouldn’t prefer it any other way.</p><p>  “We can’t leave.” He chokes out, resigning himself to his fate, “So I’m dying. They’re giving me six months, maybe, to decide. Leg or no leg. Life or no life. How do I make that choice?”</p><p>  “I don’t know,” he answers honestly.</p><p>  “You don’t have to know, I do. I just-I just needed you to listen. Look at us,” he laughs hoarsely, bitterly like an elder mocking the ways of the new generation and the naïveté with which they live, “so lost and broken.”</p><p>  “That’s true.”</p><p>  “You know why you’re doing this mission, don’t you? It’s not to kill X, you know that already, right?”</p><p>  “Goodbye, Toast,” he turns around and leaves, ignoring the man’s grumbling for him to stay. He is selfish and wicked, and he’s deserting a man who will probably die soon. Corpse turns and leaves like he has always done when things get to be too much, and he has too many thoughts clamoring for attention in his head. It’s a skill he’s nearly perfected, the not getting too attached to frivolous ventures like friendships, and then throwing everything away at the drop of a hat just to prove to himself one last time that he is not weak, that he is stronger than himself and has no qualms or remorse about doing so after the fallout.</p><p>  Corpse goes home and sits down. He removes his tie, a simple black one that feels silky in hands and silly around his neck. It’s not his- well, not really. Sykkuno bought it for him as a gesture of peace after...he can’t remember. He can’t remember if it was even an offering after all. Perhaps it was just a gift, no strings attached, but that’s never been them. It was probably a bribe to sweeten the deal of attending some special event or eating at Sykkuno’s favorite restaurant. </p><p>    Looking around his apartment, the sense of impending doom sets in, and he wonders if this will be his last night on Earth. Even if he doesn’t die, he thinks that perhaps there are some fates worse than death. What do most people do when they’re about to risk their life? He ponders the question, googles how to draw up a will and soon realizes he has few belongings and no possessions of real worth. Corpse rearranges the objects inside his ornate polished mahogany box with blue velvet inlay that holds his only valuable items. He fingers the trigger of his grandfather’s pistol that has only been fired three times, and every time it has, it has landed a fatal shot. Its second victim was Corpse’s own father. Touchy subject, to say the least. His hand gently brushes over his mother’s wedding ring, the diamond too small to care about, the sentiment wrapped in the silver band too heartfelt to sell. Lastly, his palm ghosts over a picture of Sykkuno. The glossy finish shines, forcing a grin to erupt on his face, matching the one on his love’s. Normally, a photograph of a random stranger would be worthless, so dispensable and useless, that anyone would throw it away, but Corpse knows its value. For one, it’s nearly the only picture of the mob boss in which his smile is plainly visible. Secondly, it’s one of the only pictures of the mob boss, and third, Corpse’s face is unmasked. If it were to fall into the wrong hands, it would spell disaster for everyone close to them.</p><p>  He thinks about dying a lot, way more than he should. He worries more than any mercenary he knows, but he succeeds more than anyone he’s ever seen. Corpse is a winner. The man does not crack under pressure and does not give an inch when he wants something, yet none of his skills can prepare him to draw up a will. There are few people close to him and the list of those he would consider giving his possessions or wealth to is even shorter. It really is just one: Sykkuno. He presses the button to reach his love’s secure phone line: nobody needs to find out that he is contemplating dying.</p><p>  “Hey, love, what do you want when I die?” Corpse finds that is always a great conversation starter.</p><p>  His precious boy falters, “What? Are-are you dying? Right now?”</p><p>  “No, no. Not yet. But I’m going to die.”</p><p>  “We all are.” Sykkuno reminds him, but he is well aware of the internal clock marking his final days, “Is this sudden? Did something come up? I can come get you.”</p><p>  “That’s not necessary. I’m drawing up my will.”</p><p>  “Okay. And I’m in it?”</p><p>  “Obviously,” he exhales softly, “you’re the most important person in my life. And I’m about to take on a very dangerous job.”</p><p>  “Every job has its risks, but we do it anyway. This is no different, you’ll be fine,” Sykkuno determines, staring at his chandelier and wondering what in the world could his boyfriend give on his deathbed as a consolation prize to make him forget that they will never wake up together again. Or fall asleep in the same bed. Or eat breakfast together. He tries to throw out the reminder that they haven’t done any of those things in a long time because there is no force on Earth that could take his Corpse away from him.</p><p>  “Yeah,” he breathes shakily, “do you want, uh, the trunk? You know, th-the one with…” he trails off. Dying is a hard fate to accept. Inevitable as it is, it is the human condition, an innate sense of sorts, to want to survive and live when faced with undesirable odds.</p><p>  “Your mother’s? No, you can- look, it doesn’t matter. You’re not dying.”</p><p>  Corpse chuckles bitterly in a way that doesn’t even resemble a laugh, more like he’s choking on grief, “Nobody thought Michael would die either. He didn’t even make a will. It didn’t even register in his head that he would die that day. We all thought he had years, decades, even. Why is this any different? I shouldn’t have taken this job. Sykkuno, I-I want you to have your pick of everything. You can have all of it.”</p><p>  Sykkuno chews his bottom lip, “I don’t want anything if I can’t have you. Just come back to me, alright? Make sure nobody dies. I’ve got a party planned for your return, and I expect everyone to attend.”</p><p>“Look, baby, I can’t make any promises.”</p><p>  “That’s fine,” it’s not, “I can make the arrangements. You just worry about yourself. Try not to die without me.”</p><p>  Corpse listens to the staticky noise emitting from his phone for a while after. It’s a habit he has, replaying his conversation with Sykkuno until it dissolves within his memory. Somehow, it makes him feel safer, like they are in the same room, holding each other. He just wants to see him again on his own terms, but it’s too late to turn back.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Okay, the next chapter is going to be the climax of sorts. Expect multiple betrayals, the realization that everyone has been left in the dark, so to speak, and graphic descriptions of death and violence. If this triggers you in any way, please do not read the next chapter. I don’t want anyone to feel uncomfortable. This next chapter will also determine who you think is the “good guy.” There are many possibilities. Either Dream or Corpse is the “villain,” right? It could also change your perspective on Sykkuno: perfect, caring boyfriend or overprotective, self centered mafia boss? Perhaps neither. You decide.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. The Last Stand</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Everything has been leading up to this. The plan is to catch X, incite chaos, and all go their separate ways. However, nothing ever goes as planned, especially in situations like this.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Sorry for such a long wait, everyone. First of all, I just became aware of what Ash did today, and I do not condone slurs at all. I don’t want to rewrite the whole story to erase her, so I’ll leave it as is, and I’m so sorry because it makes me sick, personally. I just think of this as a story about their internet personas, and the character’s actions irl are not involved, if that makes any sense at all.</p><p>  I’m kind of proud of these 7,000 or so words, I think, but some parts may be a bit confusing. If they are, just ask a question or voice your concern, and I’ll explain. I really hope you all enjoy. And I was thinking about an epilogue if that’s something you’re interested in called The Last Time I’ll Ever Open Up My Eyes. (Title might be too long but oh well) TW: death, gore, guns. I’m a bit spacey today, so I probably messed things up and didn’t correct my errors; as always, feel free to correct me. Anyway, sorry to ramble, enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Sykkuno is like a drug, one that definitely shouldn’t be legal. Like a man going through withdrawal, Corpse is losing parts of himself the farther he dives into his assignment and the closer he gets to his goal. With each step, he feels as though he is losing the good feeling that Sykkuno brought. His value as a person has always depended on how well he can be a mercenary. His worth as a mercenary has always been closely associated with how well he can take the life out of someone, yet he has never had the breath yanked out of himself like now while he pictures Sykkuno’s beautiful features contorting into shock as the news of his demise registers. So translation: right now, he feels completely incompetent, useless, and without any worth because he is certain he will die tomorrow.</p><p>  Toast is right about a lot of things, but Corpse will never admit that. He is correct in saying that either way the mission turns out, their lives will be meaningless. There are things that make his life better, worth continuing to put himself through the pain of waking up and going to bed and doing everything all over again the same way, but even those cherished things will be taken away from him if he goes through with the plan. He can quit, leave it all behind, but Toast is right: men like the two of them are bound to the job. Whether by obligation or the exhilaration that follows along, they cannot leave, not like they could ever entertain the possibility for very long.</p><p>  Ludwig is the first to arrive, punctual as ever. He’s in a sort of disguise that, really, isn’t all that different from his regular self. With an oversized Tom Brady Patriots jersey, it is clear to see that he is from the upper east coast. His hands are jostling from place to place, tapping the conference table of the rented space in the building across from where their target is.</p><p>  “Everything alright?”</p><p>  Corpse tosses his head like a proud stallion in the wake of a rebellious foal, the new contender to his throne, “Yeah, why do you ask?”</p><p>  “You don’t look too good,” it’s not exactly an insult; it’s just a statement meant to bring attention to the bags drooping from his dark eyes and the red line curving around his cheek from resting on the edge of the table.</p><p>  “I’m fine, Lud. How about you?” He looks up, noting the hazy expression on his friend’s face, “Are you okay?”</p><p>  “Doesn’t your conscience ever get to you?” He throws out, nudging Corpse further than the man would prefer.</p><p>  He shrugs, “Don’t have one.” </p><p>  “Oh, I guess that makes it easy.”</p><p>  Finding the small talk relatively manageable and almost an anesthetic for his anxiety, Corpse continues, “How’s your family?”</p><p>  “Don’t have one,” the man with a quiff in his brown hair echoes, “not one worth mentioning, at least.”</p><p>  “Guess we’re all in the same boat then.”</p><p>  “You- all of you, I mean, don’t have anyone?”</p><p>  He smiles, but it’s painful, his facial muscles tensing up like a runner before an important dash. It is true that from the outside, perhaps they do look pathetic. No family, nomadic by nature and always on the run, prone to paranoia due to their work, and always riddled with abandonment issues among other mental disorders. </p><p>  “Most of us don’t. Some left them behind,” he thinks of himself and Rae, “and others outgrew former family bonds or romantic affiliations.” Poki and Toast fit well into that category, “And some just find that solitude suits them. It, uh, makes it easier if something goes wrong. No family to comfort over the loss of a filthy criminal. Sometimes the truth is better left hidden from the ones we love.”</p><p>  His heart feels like jagged glass shards are turning in his chest. Sykkuno, his friends, and everyone he knows will be distraught at first, sure, but they’ll all move on. He tells himself this repeatedly until he believes it. His mission is not foolhardy or stupid. He is not recklessly tossing out his life; he is saving his lover.</p><p>  “Corpse, I-I’ve been meaning to ask you something.” Ludwig chokes out, the lump in his throat is impeding his ability to speak, “It’s about the job.”</p><p>  “Not right now,” he breathes deeply, shuts his eyes, and calms his heartbeat into a steady rhythm.</p><p>  “It-it’s fine. That’s fine.”</p><p>  “What about your friends? You must have a few on the force, at least.”</p><p>  “No,” he shakes his head ever so lightly, lips ghosting over a solemn frown, “nobody. I’ve lost a-a lot of people. Had a lot of things taken from me. So no, I don’t have friends.”</p><p>  Corpse understands that, “Oh. I thought we could be friends- maybe not now but sometime after this. You’re an alright guy.”</p><p>  “Thanks. I guess I lied, then: I have one friend.”</p><p>  The pact is made without too many words. The job goes well, and they’ll meet up again, be friends. It will be fine because the job will go well. Hope is a dangerous thing to have because sometimes all the pretty gossamer promises we make ourselves fall through, and we realize how vulnerable we really are. Hope builds a suit of pretend armor around our insecurities so thick that even we can’t see them until the dreaded moment when the metal falls away to reveal the truth: that we are just as prone to weakness as anyone else, and even hope cannot sugarcoat that fact for long.</p><p>  Everyone else arrives not long after to a quiet room. Corpse is a bit glum. At this point, he’s just trying to get through the process of letting everyone in on the plan so that they can actually do something instead of just wandering around like he’s lost in a hazy cloud. It’s tiresome, to say the least.</p><p>  “Just over there,” he points through the giant window, “is our man. Now, I want everyone to picture where he will be, what each of you will do, and how our mission will be carried out.”</p><p>  They envision the possible outcomes and fear every single one. In one scenario, there is an ambush; they all die, sprawled out on the floor with no family. In the next, they succeed for the most part, but everything is so terrible. The card castle crumbles, so to speak, and the fate is almost worse than death. Then, they are torn, shattered, ruptured beyond any hope of saving. One by one, each scenario flickers by with a different person dying every time and another having to deal with the loss and inform the others. </p><p>  He’s never been this scared; none of them have. His heartbeat used to dance a steady waltz, but now his blood pressure is skyrocketing. Nothing feels tangible, and he just wishes he could jump from the building instead of leaving through the front door. He holds his chest like he’s having a heart attack, and still, he cannot pinpoint the exact cause of his distress. Corpse is distraught, a million things rampaging through his mind. He just wants to go home. That way he won’t have to face what lies ahead. He presents like a tired salesman on career day who is teaching a bunch of equally as tired children about his day making deals and negotiations about beat-up sedans with too many miles. This job is big, the biggest any of them have ever taken on, but he refrains from telling his team exactly why.</p><p>  “We’re finished, uh, unless you’ve got questions. Any questions?”</p><p>  Poki hesitantly raises her hand with her eyes averted, clinging to her shiny louboutins, “I’m an organ donor.”</p><p>  “What?” Corpse stammers, taken aback like everyone else. Rae instinctively reaches towards Poki, but the distance is too much, so she retracts her hand. It’s not the time to bring up old, long dead feelings from their haphazardly dug resting place. What was dead should stay dead.</p><p>  “I’m a organ donor.” She swallows and explains once again, “I have seventeen fake driver’s licenses. Fifteen passports. Twenty or so identities at the ready just in case. They’re all organ donors. I’ve only got one heart and, uh, just two kidneys, some skin, and bone or whatever else some doctor decides is worthy of saving a life.</p><p>  “I kill people. We all know that, some of us do that, and,” she stares at Ludwig, “most of us are quite comfortable with that reality. But I’d like to do some good, even if it’s from the grave. So i-if something happens, I’d like you t-to donate my organs. Please.”</p><p>  “Nothings going to happen,” Corpse denies, the only one willing to speak.</p><p>  “It might.”</p><p>  “Don’t think like that.”</p><p>  “That’s what we thought about Michael! And my father! An-and countless others that die every goddamn day. And maybe I can save some of those people. So just let me do this. This is how I’m coping. Let me cope.” She sighs, “If I wind up brain-dead because of this scheme, I-I don’t want to be on life support or die knowing that my life could have meant something more than death and suffering.”</p><p>  “You’re not going to die. You won’t be brain dead. None of us will. Guys, trust me,” he pleads with his usually steely eyes, “everything will be fine. Promise.”</p><p>  It is five minutes later when the room is empty with only one lonely inhabitant that he says, “Fuck, I can’t believe I promised them that.”</p><p>  Rae is right outside, the picture of a supportive friend, a good teammate, a great liar.</p><p>  “Rachel, I think I’m going to die.”</p><p>  She is not swayed from her position of leaning against the wall and staring straight ahead. She’s dealt with much worse than cold feet, “Okay. Is that a problem? Are you backing out now?”</p><p>  “No, not like that. I just, um, I’ve always sort of known I am going to die, but I’ve never minded until now. And it scares me.”</p><p>  “Well, you’ve never had anything to lose up until now.”</p><p>  “Y-yeah. I’ve never wanted to live like I do now. Before, it was all about the next mission, but I’m scared, so scared.”</p><p>  He is a good judge of character, yet even the greatest falter sometimes. His poor judgement in this case may be detrimental. Rae comforts him for a few minutes until he has regained his composure. Abruptly, she snaps on a new facade, no longer the sweet friend but a ruthless killer and even a presumed double agent.</p><p>  “Don’t worry,” she huffs into the microphone, “he’s ready. When you pull the trigger, ju-just make sure it doesn’t hurt.”</p><p>  “Is that weakness I hear, Rae?” Comes the cocky reply. </p><p>  “Of course not. It’s your shot, do whatever you want.”</p><p>  “Obviously. But don’t worry, I have much bigger plans in mind,” the smile is practically audible, and Rae almost winces in dismay. Nothing is ever easy, losing someone she once knew as friends, maybe multiple people, in fact, is rather impossible.</p><p>  Corpse finds himself in a place he has been many times prior, at his wit’s end with little hope remaining. He finds Poki in the designated changing room, sitting cross legged on the floor. He slumps down next to her with a sigh.</p><p>  “I should tell you some things.”</p><p>  Poki isn’t in a great mood, and she wants to warn him of the splitting migraine and unwavering fear taking up space in her head. She doesn’t, “Go ahead.”</p><p>  “I’ve been lying to a lot of people,” he admits, “and it’s about time I come clean. To you, especially.”</p><p>  Poki nods, fiddling with her sleeves.</p><p>  “I didn’t lose all my money. I’ve got a wealthy benefactor who’s been supplying me with everything I’ve needed.”</p><p>  “That’s not too much, then. We just ran on a wild goose chase halfway around the world for what? Kicks and grins?” She taunts, not really upset. She’s too scared to be anything but worried. Her hands weave through her tightly braided hair. It’s no replacement for someone else’s hands running through her chocolate tresses, but it will have to do.</p><p>  “Well, no. We had to get Dream off our backs. He was a little tied up then, so we had to pretend we were running out of options, playing right into his hands.”</p><p>  “Dream? You mean...this whole time, it hasn’t been about X, has it?” Poki’s always been a smart one, maybe more of a genius than any of them.</p><p>  “It’s about X, but there are bigger things at stake here. Yo-you have to understand that I didn’t mean to lead everyone on for this long but-“</p><p>  “What?” She finally breaks, nearly shouting at him, “You thought it’d be fun to string us all along on this ridiculous mission, screw up all our lives, and possibly get us all killed? Or is it good for your ego? What- why would you do any of this? Tell me you’ve got a good reason for dragging me out of retirement, giving us all hypertension, and-and just tell me you have a reason for pulling this shit.”</p><p>  “I-I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I’m practically as in the dark as you. I’ve got a hundred people who could be enemies, a handful that I know are, and only a couple like you who I can actually trust. So yeah, I’ve been lying and fucking up lives. I’ve been leading everyone on, and I guess I’m the bad guy here. But I didn’t think this through, okay? I just need time to process everything, and I want to explain it to you. Please just give me this chance to explain.”</p><p>  Poki doesn’t walk away or sneer with some cruel remark as her only goodbye, so he takes her silence as a good sign to continue, “When Toast gave me the information for this job, I already knew some of what was happening. I got Lud in, and he’s been on our side of things for a while. He’s a cop- well, you already know that.” He’s never been the best at telling his own stories, and he notices she’s losing interest, “I-I had to do this to save someone. XQC is very close to them, and I think it’s best for all of us if we kill him.”</p><p>  “I don’t care, Corpse. I don’t care. I know I’m overreacting, but you keep telling me and everyone else that this is going to be big. Yeah, it does sound like you don’t have a plan. You don’t know what the hell we’re doing here except storming a building and getting ourselves killed or captured. So to be completely honest, I don’t fucking care right now. We’ve all lost things, and I understand that you don’t want to lose anything else, but I’m not willing to die for this. This doesn’t even make any sense. We don’t do jobs like this. You didn’t think this through, and when we get sent home in body bags, you’ll only have yourself to blame. But, sure, by all means, clear your conscience,” she stares at him blankly, waiting for his response. It doesn’t come. He leaves instead.</p><p>  Everyone is in their positions an hour later, including a tuxedo-clad man with pink skin and a rose in his jacket pocket. Techno never misses a good fight, especially not when he has something riding on its outcome.</p><p>  Rae is tense, expectant, on edge. Her long, silky hair is tautly pulled into a ponytail, and she looks sleek like a panther. Her athletic wear is all black. Poki stands next to her, shaky but determined. It’s not too much if they kiss just once for old time’s sake, is it? They wonder, making eye contact every so often just to remember how it feels to know someone has your back and you have theirs. They’ll always be connected by some universal bond that neither has ever found the will to sever, not like they would want to either. They lock hands, steadily roaming over the dips and grooves of each other’s palm and knuckles like they used to, until the rest of the team gives the signal. Rae departs with a final glance back. It’s not enough for a last goodbye if after this, they have to go a whole lifetime without each other. Nothing could ever be enough. But they separate anyway because that is what is best for the mission.</p><p>  It doesn’t matter that nobody has any clue what they are doing, and nobody knows which side they are on. They are naïve like children who believe that everyone is their best friend and stranger danger will protect them from anything the world can throw at them. They are capable fighters with skills that could bring cities to their knees, but they are just children trying to find their way in a world that has refused to accept them since birth. What does it matter, living or dying, when their home is not their own and nothing feels corporeal? They are lost in a wild, unforgiving world that none of them can make heads or tails of or learn how to deal with the obstacles in their paths. This is their last shot. To redeem themselves, to prove something to themselves and the people around them, to set one last fire before the whole world burns them alive, to remember how life used to be. They cannot miss.</p><p>  Everything is quiet, too quiet. Corpse finds it almost as dreadful and eerie as the inside of a coffin, not that he knows what that is like, but he has thought about it enough for the sensation to feel real. The air is chilly, and it’s dark, a shadow of midnight hanging in the still night sky. All the business people, tourists, and such that normally cluster the narrow sidewalks have all gone home for the day, and he almost feels sorry that many of them won’t have a place to come back to in the morning. Oh, who is he kidding? He knows half the workers will be in high spirits because they’ll be on vacation for a while. His heart rate keeps soaring then dropping suddenly, and anxiously, his fingers subconsciously scratch at his wrists and neck, any open slip of skin they can find. The gentle pain negotiates with his mind, convincing him to stop worrying so much. His legs feel like giving out; he almost feels like obliging their wish. He wonders what just dropping would feel like. Letting go of everything and just falling limply like a tattered stuffed animal.</p><p>  He feels weightless, like his body is moving without alerting his mind to the idea, when Ash gives him the signal, a faint trail of opaque smoke high enough to catch his attention because he is searching for it but low enough not to draw any suspicion. Subconsciously, he is picturing the sound of the explosion as the safe pops open. He imagines the surprised looks on the cops’ faces as they gaze inside a full vault. What’s the point, they’ll say, of leaving all this money after going to all the trouble to get to it? Then, Ludwig will grimace, feign anger as if he’s been slighted, or maybe he will play confused at the odd event, and he’ll send his lackeys to collect evidence, of which there will be none. Ash will be long gone, perhaps with a hefty stack of bills in her pocket to keep her happy. He’s prepared for the eventuality of having to face whatever awaits him, and even though he has run over the possibilities in his head and contemplated everything down to the smallest detail, he is still unsure and wary of what fate has in store for him.</p><p>  He finds himself in the room X or Dream or whoever the hell he is meant to be meeting is supposed to be in, but the only one he finds is Sykkuno. He’s tied to a chair, his bonds probably digging into his fragile skin. Corpse rushes to cut him out, but a sound like a slamming door from behind him makes him</p><p>  “Corpse?” His sweet voice is overwhelmed with fear and a desperate need for reassurance.</p><p>  “Pull the damn trigger, Corpse,” Toast’s smirk is audible, fluttering about, doing all the gloating for him. He taps the barrel of his pistol on the nape of Corpse’s neck. Behind him is the perfect position to watch the blood drain from Sykkuno’s face, to watch as the tall man in front of him clenches his fist and drops his head in defeat.</p><p>  “Come on, take out your gun. Point it at the pretty boy’s head.” Noting his stubborn nature, he decides to press further, antagonize him a bit, goad him gently into killing his lover, “You do it, or I will. And I’ll make it very painful. A lot of people want their pound of flesh from him. So many lies, people dead, and-and goddamnit, Corpse, just shoot him!”</p><p>  His thoughts drift off like usual: he’s never been great at staying focused. He remembers what killing his father was like and how he lived in the aftermath. Before, he had figured it would be extremely difficult, but it was actually numbing. It almost felt like swimming, paddling softly through easy waters and letting the breeze wrap itself around his warmth. He was taking in oxygen easily then, but now, his breath is ragged. Killing Sykkuno is different. He feels as though he is drowning, and there is no way he can keep his head above water, gasping for the last breath his body will allow before the current sweeps his legs and tugs his limp body closer to the cold heart of the unforgiving ocean.</p><p>  For the first time in maybe ever, he misfires. Sykkuno’s doe eyes are too sweet and hopeful to be crushed with silver dollars and deposited in some unknown grave somewhere that no one will visit. He’s looking at him like he wants to die, and nothing could have prepared him for the sight of his love wanting to die, finding a bullet in his heart preferable to going on. They’ve discussed the mutual feeling of weightlessness at the edge of a cliff with no escape, no turn back, no laugh it off and brush away the sensation of hopelessness; this is why he prefers feeling numb. Numb does not scratch and stick needles in his skin like frostbite, does not make him second guess his own decisions, the ones he knows are perfectly fine the way they are, does not spark irrational fear in the deepest recesses of his mind, does not convolute his memories, fantasies, hallucinations, and emotions until he does not know which is which or what to believe. They poke and prod at him until he is not sure what is real. He covers up all the mirrors and races to the next town, forgetting everything but his own name. It is better, much better, this way, he finds. Sykkuno understands, or understood, but honestly, Corpse doesn’t know what’s happening.</p><p>  Corpse fingers the scar on his left cheek with his free hand. It healed in the shape of a frayed rope after some big shot boxer had taken a cheap shot at him in the ring. It reminds him that he is far from invincible.</p><p>  “I told you he wouldn’t do it,” Toast grumbles, and with that, he is gone.</p><p>  “What,” Corpse breathes slowly to steady his racing heart, “what is this, Sy?”</p><p>  “Call it cleaning house, love, had to get rid of a few rats.”</p><p>  Of course, Sykkuno sounds calm: he always does. And Corpse, too, is usually tranquil, but usually he hasn’t just come down from the terror driven adrenaline rush of almost shooting his boyfriend. His hand is on Corpse’s cheek, interlacing their fingers and affectionately brushing his thumb against his lover’s knuckles.</p><p>  “Want to help out?”</p><p>  “I-I thought that…” he trails off, but after noting Sykkuno's distracted stare, he shakes off his thoughts, “it doesn’t matter, sorry. Let’s go.”</p><p> As soon as he opens the door, Sykkuno begins to prattle on about all the ways Toast and Rae have betrayed him over the years, and he nods along because he’s been on the receiving end of their deceitful ways. It does not take much convincing to sway him against his former allies. Immediately, his gaze is hardened, and he is angry that anyone would backstab lovely Sykkuno.</p><p>  They find her, Rae, brown hair cascading down her back as she runs towards Corpse, “Hey, I took out two guys, but I overheard there are more on the way.”</p><p>  He peers behind his shoulder, but Sykkuno has disappeared into the shadows, leaving him to face Rae alone.</p><p>  “Good,” he’s still searching around, looking for a clue as to what his next move should be. Should he lead her to an alcove or sweep her legs and deal with her here? The decision is made for him when Sykkuno steps out and kicks her hard, knocking her down. They make eye contact, a silent negotiation regarding who wants to do it. Honestly, Corpse would much rather regurgitate his breakfast instead of hurting Rae, but Sykkuno clearly doesn’t feel that way judging by the sneer on his face as he regards Rae.</p><p>  “You can do it if you want,” he offers, tossing down his own knife, still bloody, as a sign of resignation.</p><p>  “I’d be glad to,” Sykkuno steps closer with a vindictive grin, “don’t be afraid.”</p><p>  He crouches down to her eye level. She’s bunched up like a spring, and normally, she’d run or kick and scream until they’d sedate or kill her, and either way, she’d be fine. In this case, she is stopped, eyelids shut, still limbs almost testing out what death would feel like. She is weightless, hair cascading around her shoulders, the ties somewhere else, abandoned in her sprint.</p><p>  “You should’ve stopped. You should’ve stopped hunting us. You hurt people I love. I’m very angry.”</p><p>  Sykkuno’s words bring a harsh chill to the room and the woman on the ground. She doesn’t look up, doesn’t flinch even when his dagger pricks her cheek, a droplet of crimson slipping down like rainwater.</p><p>  “You should’ve stopped running, Rae,” he pats the top of her head affectionately, “now leave.”</p><p>  “Wh-what? I-I, no, I have to sta-stay...my job...I can’t go,” she protests, flailing, grabbing his leg to ground herself.</p><p>  “You know what to do,” he encourages softly, turning to Corpse, “it won’t hurt.”</p><p>  His boyfriend’s eyebrows crease as the startled looking woman shakily stands up, “What won’t hurt? Sykkuno, what’s going on?”</p><p>  “Babushka!” </p><p>  His shout rings through the corridor, mercilessly ricocheting around in Corpse’s head until he realizes what Tommy’s warning really meant. Dream isn’t the enemy; it’s Sykkuno. It’s the person closest to him who is the only one capable of hurting him the most. It is Rae who takes the shot and aims right at his leg, the top of his thigh, with enough force left in her to seriously injure him. He has fallen directly into their trap. How could he have been so stupid? The thoughts plague his mind, and he lets them. Going on seems like too harsh a punishment, so he considers stopping altogether.</p><p>  “Y-you,” he slurs, overcome with stabbing pain and betrayal, “shot me.”</p><p>  “That’s for Toast,” she says as a last regard of sorts. His lover does not turn back, does not meet his grief stricken gaze one last time. His blood spills like red wine across the floor; his eyelids are heavy, breathing ragged. He wishes he had seen the signs. He thought he knew everything that was to come but how naïve he feels now. The world is crushing him between two forces: his love for Sykkuno and his need to live. He decides to hobble his way down the hall, applying pressure to his bleeding wound. The picture he makes quite resembles an injured flamingo. </p><p>  He remarks on his own negligence. He recounts how it must have been his own pride that blinded him to Sykkuno’s faults and deceit. At first, he found their relationship comparable to Achilles and Patroclus, but perhaps he was mistaken. Those star crossed lovers would die and did die for each other, in a way. Tragically, romantically, beautifully. The tale would outlive them, but, no, Corpse thinks, his story, the one about Sykkuno and himself, would die here and now. As soon as his leg bleeds out, he is content to give himself over to whatever deity presides over death, if there even is one.</p><p>  He watches the dark grey smoke curl and weave in the starry night and rolls his eyes, “Damnit, Ash, I wanted a few small bombs, not a whole forest fire.</p><p>  Something keeps him going forward, but it’s not the thought of Sykkuno. Rather, it must be determination that compels him to prove fate wrong. He could have died on the ground, weak and alone, but if he goes out, he will do so on his own terms. A rebel until the very end.</p><p>  Rae and Sykkuno are pacing the hallway, watching more and more smoke rise above the skyline.</p><p>  “Ash would’ve been a good addition to my team, but I’m glad I picked you,” he compliments, speaking freely without the dark cloud of nervous energy hanging over him.</p><p>    “I don’t know what he sees in you,” she comments offhandedly, ignoring his statement.</p><p>  “What?”</p><p>  “Corpse. He loves you,” she enunciates every syllable, “like really loves you. And you just shot him. Well, I shot him, but inadvertently, you did it.”</p><p>  He can’t even bring himself to defend his actions, “I-I know. But he’s a weakness and people tell me I can’t afford weaknesses.”</p><p>  “Who’s people? And Corpse isn’t weak. He’s strong, and he can take care of himself. You’ve been babysitting him for two years.”</p><p>  “Only because if I didn’t, he’d have killed himself by now. Arrogant fool who always thinks he knows what’s right and wrong, and-and I had to do something. I had to show them that he’s not worth anything to me. This was a necessary measure designed to protect everyone involved,” Sykkuno says like he’s reciting a speech with notecards drawing his focus instead of his audience.</p><p>  “Once again, who are these people?”</p><p>  Sykkuno doesn’t meet her gaze, “Just Dream, I guess, a-and some others.</p><p>  “The problem, I guess, is that I’ve killed people, whole families, actually, for little things. For the most petty reasons, I’ve slaughtered ten people without a care in the world. But, I don’t know, for some reason, I let Corpse tell me what’s best for us and whatever else, and I couldn’t kill him myself.”</p><p>  “Because you’re in a relationship.”</p><p>  “I am aware.” He stresses the sentence, “In my mind, it's a weakness. But still, my associates have warned me not to let someone like him, someone from our world, get too close. I let him anyway. There are always consequences, so I-I had to let him go.”</p><p>  “Alright. I don’t understand. I don’t know why you would give up the best thing that’s ever happened to you because Dream told you to. That’s not the Sykkuno I know. I used to know this punk kid who played bass and liked knives, but you’ve changed. And I guess we all do but that doesn’t matter because you’re not a good person. Even then, I guess it’s true that none of us are. I know we’re all murderers, cradle robbers, junkies, gang members, sadists, or liars and that we’re all going to hell. I know that we’re all going to die soon, so all I can tell you is not to let him go. You love him, he loves you. This opportunity is once in a lifetime, and you’re going to squander it away like everything else in your life.”</p><p>  “Are you done?”</p><p>  She is finished; she has nothing more left in her. She is broken and desperate, and broken and desperate people do terrible things like shoot their friends in the leg. Talking to Sykkuno is like talking to a brick wall, unfulfilling and unnecessary. She doesn’t answer, just deserts him. Without feeling particularly guilty or remorseful- at least not remorseful or guilty in regards to Sykkuno because she still hasn’t fully come to terms with injuring someone who used to be a close friend- she finds a back alley that leads to an empty street. She almost finds it fitting that the one time she actually seeks human companionship, it is out of her grasp.</p><p>  Nearly thirty minutes later, they are all in different places, mentally and physically. Ash is hiding in an overpriced hotel room. She bought two plane tickets under a fake name to throw off the trail, and now, she’s crying in her bathroom, steadying herself by clutching the marble countertop for dear life, because this was her first job in awhile, and nothing is going as it should. Rae is dealing with the consequences of her actions by succumbing to the call of a bottle, nursing her wounded pride and scraped skin. She won’t even be sober enough to register how fast the bullet is flying before it punctures her sternum and slides into her chest. Her last gasp of air will not be a controlled, pleading to the heavens, hopeful breath but a ragged, chaotic in nature, shocked cough as she spits out more blood than her heart can pump. There is Poki in the middle of changing identities. In her transformation process, there is always a certain loss of self that she experiences in the in-between. Somehow, she loses focus between herself and the clothes, the attitude that doesn’t belong to her, the new cards, and the name change. For now, she is just a lonely woman in the city with an excess of problems and no one to confide in. She has spent years running away, and she has no intention of changing course now, not when everything is so scattered and broken like a shattered mirror. </p><p>  Somewhere, Ludwig is handing in his resignation. Scarra gave him an ultimatum: submit to Sykkuno’s brand of torture or quit. He does not feel confident enough in his own strength to withstand the abuse, so he gave in to the cowardly side of him. Now, with buckets of money and probably some sort of gang trailing after him, he books a cruise around Europe. He’s never had much time to travel the world, but he has always intended to do so before he dies, and it seems like no better time than the present. On the other side of the spectrum of good and evil, Toast is collecting himself for a court appearance. He never thought he would live to see the day justice came to cart him away. One phone call with  no one to call. Honestly, he does not want to dial up his contacts and plead for his own freedom. There are worse fates than imprisonment, though he has never seen it that way. In a few days or weeks, maybe, his conscience will reset itself or be drowned out by his keen sense of self preservation, yet for right now, he will be content in a cell with three square meals and a cot to console him and protect him from the horrors of outside. For now, though he does not feel whole or happy, he will be content with the cards he has been dealt. It does seem rather poetic or metaphorical that the one perceived to be the most innocent and good of all the six, the one with the most to lose, got away almost scot free while the original leader, the one who submitted the assignment to Corpse lost everything. Yet while the latter is content to stare at blank grey walls and listen to quiet, almost buzzing silence, the former is at odds with himself. Lud and perhaps Ash are the only ones who can’t seem to come to terms with their past, present, or future.</p><p>  By morning, everyone will know about their failure, about Corpse’s great fall from grace, and how all of them together had been outsmarted by Sykkuno. Nobody will mention- probably because no one will know- that truly, Sykkuno was played by Dream, but that is unnecessary information.</p><p>  And far above their weary bodies, just soft, prone to sickness beings of flesh and bone, marvels of organic chemistry and the almost magic way of the universe, is the true victor. Nothing to lose, everything to gain, he is the only survivor of the war that ripped apart lovers and created divides not likely to be repaired. Dream is the real enemy. Too bad this realization set in far later than anyone would’ve liked. The buildings are on the verge of collapse; it’s time to flee. Sykkuno should run and not look back, but he has a secret mission to attend to. Picking his spirits up, he races, avoiding stumbling in puddles of blood or tripping on scattered, still smoldering remains of crumbling walls. He has to find Corpse, but after an hour of searching, squinting through the darkness in vain, and inhaling smoke, he gives up. While not a man of faith, Sykkuno has always believed there is a certain universal path each person follows, and if he isn’t meant to be with Corpse, he will have to learn how to manage his grief. He had callously made a terrible error, and now, there is nothing he can do. Sykkuno finds his car, a few minutes walk from the firefighters who are working hard to put out the fire- though it is too late because Ash does not make it so easy since she uses a special sort of igniter- and directs his driver to circle around for a bit, tells him it is to scope out the area. His gaze catches sight of Corpse like linen on a rusty nail. He is limping, one hand clutching his side in an attempt to keep his balance and the other propelling him forward. Sykkuno almost commands his chauffeur to stop, but the demand dies on his tongue. Is it really too much to ask fate for them to be together? He opens his mouth again, intent on wrestling Corpse into the car and discussing what happened with him. To be honest, he isn’t sure he knows what he was doing. It was this or his whole empire, his livelihood, everything his father and whole family had worked for. How can he throw all that away and hand it to Dream with a silver bow? No, he asserts to himself, Corpse understands. He loves him, and sometimes, you know what is best for the people you love, even if the right choice is not the easiest one.</p><p>  Corpse hoists himself up three flights of stairs to his apartment and crumples into the couch like a forgotten, unwanted letter. His leg is bleeding, but the crimson stain doesn’t bother him so much. The pain was searing before; now he is calmer, more focused. Drowsiness has edged its way in to overthrow everything else. A noise awakens him a bit later when the excitement of the night has worn off, and the searing agony has taken its place.</p><p>  “Corpse?” A familiar voice says, and the word feels like it’s echoing through his skull.</p><p>  “Hey, hey. You got a haircut?”</p><p>  Lily looks different, maybe more mature or just older, like she has been through a lot more than she deserves. He understands that and imagines his own face must look just as rugged. Oh well, it is part of the job.</p><p>  “Stitch me up please?” He extends the left side of his face to Lily.</p><p>  She doesn’t talk much, just murmurs about clean knives and butterfly stitches.</p><p>  “Why are you back? Not that I don’t appreciate it, but your arrival is rather late. We could’ve used you back there.”</p><p>  “Watch it,” she says, “I have a scalpel in my back pocket.”</p><p>  He waits for her to answer his question; she does, “I couldn’t stand to be away. If you all died- if I wasn’t here again, I couldn’t live with myself. You’d have died, and it wouldn’t be my fault, but I should’ve been here. What are the casualties?”</p><p>  “Bad.”</p><p>  “How many?”</p><p>  “Enough.” He’s being vague on purpose: it irritates her.</p><p>  “Just tell me already!”</p><p>  “Fine. We lost, er, Rae. She’d been working against us with Toast. I don’t know where he went. Fucking idiot. She tried to kill me. And Toast, well, I should’ve slit his throat then and there. Bastard. I’m not sure where everyone else is.”</p><p>  “I’m sorry. I know Rae was like a sister to you.”</p><p>  “Yeah,” he ties off the bandage, gingerly avoiding the bruises on his thighs and abdomen, “but sisters don’t usually shoot you in the leg when you least expect it.”</p><p>  “It’s your boyfriend’s fault.”</p><p>  “No, no, somebody else must’ve forced him. Sykkuno would never do this, especially not to me.”</p><p>  “Yeah, well, sometimes things happen when we least expect them to,” her tone is full of thinly veiled distaste.</p><p>  “Please don’t blame me after all this time. I can’t die with you hating me.”</p><p>  “You’re not going to die. You said it yourself that you don’t feel any pain. Now, you’ll definitely feel it in the morning, but that’s future Corpse’s problem.</p><p>  “I don’t hate you, by the way. I did at first. There wasn’t a day that went by for six months that I didn’t curse you and yell at the walls because you-you practically killed him. An-and now I just think about how awful that is, for me to blame you for something nobody could control, not me or you or anyone on the team. It’s not your fault. There were things all of us could have done. Toast could have planned better so that X wouldn’t have snuck past our defenses, and Rae’s bombs didn’t go off at the right time. I was at home, and you were at the top of the building.”</p><p>  “I was useless on that mission,” he recounts with a scowl, “so entirely worthless that I shouldn’t have even been there. And that’s what I have to live with. I killed him. I shouldn’t have been on the rooftop staring down at some street through a sniper. I should’ve been wi-with Rae, you know, or Toast. I could’ve helped. Maybe Michael could have lived.”</p><p>  “Let’s not live in hypotheticals, okay?”</p><p>  “Deal.” It is the only deal he has ever made that he didn’t regret immediately after. It is the only one without any business transaction involved or consequences for failing attached. Lily leaves him alone in the chaos that he incited, invited into his soul so long ago and cannot find the will to cast out. He always found it best to be alone, but loneliness is a totally different monster.</p><p>  What is done is done. The past cannot be retracted like a poorly executed high five. He cannot go back and tell himself what he knows now, and somehow, he imagines he will be at peace with that soon enough. Not now, not two weeks from today, but soon, he will be ready to come to terms with his own flaws and shortcomings and the way they inpaired his judgement on today’s mission. He tells himself again and again that feelings etch scars and reopen wounds that pour themselves out relentlessly over and over again until enough room is left for sorrow to sink in, numbness to flee, and for him to be left with nothing. The world is cruel, and all his life, he has tried to be crueler. People bite, he bites back, and so is the way of things. It feels like too much, everything is much worse than it was in years past. There is only so much he can take before he reaches his breaking point. Maybe it all ends with a burning city block, no reason or cause for his demise, and a shadowy night that reflects his own soul and presents his character in such a way that there is no purity or innocence left in his dark heart. There’s too much blood, and the last of his sanity has run out.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. The Last Time I’ll Ever Open Up My Eyes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Epilogue. Was supposed to be called The Last Chapter but that’s boring. Corpse and Sykkuno get married, everyone has one last celebration before they part ways, and I explain more about what happened after the story. Like an epilogue, you know.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I’m sorry, you’re probably all really bored with this story, but honestly, I was dissatisfied with how it ended. I had a tiny bit more written that I was going to add into the last chapter, but it didn’t fit. I just had to write more. But I have school tomorrow and I’ve got to wake up at 5;30, so why did I write until 11 to finish this?? Because I’m insane. That’s why.</p><p>Tw: slight suicide mention (Rae’s and Poki contemplating) and that’s it, but if I miss something, please let me know. I never want to make anyone uncomfortable or triggered in any way. Also, REAL PEOPLE, work of fiction, not real storyline. Don’t share with creators involved please. And just be nice in the comments because I’ve had to delete some mean ones that weren’t even constructive and just made me confused.</p><p>This is long already, but I really want to dedicate this to marsisaplanet for always being so supportive and kind to me, especially about this story. Thank you so much.</p><p>Enjoy!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Is there something you need?” The kind caramel-skinned man in blue scrubs asks with a pleasant smile.</p><p>  Groggily, Corpse reaches for the nearest thing, the nurse’s hand, “Wh-what? I don’t need anything, no, just- sorry- find me...where is he? I need to go. Now.”</p><p>  “Oh, sorry, sir,” he detaches himself from the patient with a thin grimace, “you’re under strict bed rest. We-I can’t let you leave. You were flailing in your sleep. Are you in distress?”</p><p>  “Stress? No. I-I need him…Sy-“</p><p>  “Again, apologies, but I can’t let any visitors in until- sir! Sir, where are you going?” Corpse has heaved himself up, wincing at the acute pain in his knees, and is heading for the door. The nurse grips him by the shoulders not very lightly and tells him again, “You can’t leave.”</p><p>  “I can do what I want!” He throws off the man; he lands on the floor, and Corpse almost feels sad. He is innocent, did not do anything except his job, and now he has hurt the poor guy.</p><p>  “I’m getting Celine,” he shuffles out of the jail cell Corpse is confined to with remorse in his eyes. The patient almost wants to calm him down, explain that his anger issues are not his problem and that he is sorry for hurting him. It is too late, he brushes the apology off. Then, he sees her: Poki.</p><p>  “Hey! In here!” He shouts, but she’s already inside, shutting the door hastily, “What happened? Why am I here?”</p><p>  “You don’t remember?” Her eyebrows thread together in confusion.</p><p>  “Obviously not.”</p><p>  “Okay. Uh, what- do you remember the job?”</p><p>  “Yes, yes,” he holds his head in hands, mentally struggling to connect the dots, “I remember the job. But why am I here? Is this a psych ward? That would make sense.”</p><p>  “Nothing like that. You had some bleeding from a bullet in your leg. Lily brought you here two nights ago. You don’t remember almost stabbing the nurse?”</p><p>  “No, I-I just want to get home,” he starts pulling at the wires and needles attached to his body.</p><p>  She rushes forward and grabs his hands, “Stop, you can’t do that. I will not let you go home. This is my first day as a nurse, and I will not allow my patient to escape.”</p><p>  “Fine,” he relaxes into the stiff pillow behind his pounding head. His bones ache, and his subconscious crouches in waiting, ready to pounce and take over when he decides he cannot handle the bright lights and the constant motion and the dreadful beeping of the monitors. He lies awake, patient, and hoping that by some miracle, this has all been a dream. It feels like one. The haphazardly constructed plan that everyone rallied behind feels ridiculous.</p><p>  When he is finally discharged with a slap on the wrist and some prescription pain meds, Poki rolls his wheelchair outside. She blows bubblegum and does not talk to him. The silence is suffocating, but he endures because he knows that conversation is not in his best interests.</p><p>  Finally, it is her that succumbs to the pressure to fill the empty air. She stands in front of him and says, “Take it easy, Corpse. You don’t need to aggravate your wound, and I won’t be here when you land yourself in the hospital again, okay?”</p><p>  He gives her a good natured two fingered salute and revels in the sunlight, something he took for granted until he was trapped in a plain, white room for a week.</p><p>  “Yeah, I’ll make a cup of tea and fluff some pillows,” he jokes, and she rolls her eyes.</p><p>  “Alright. You can walk from here?”</p><p>  Poki leaves, taking the wheelchair with her, and he realizes he has to walk many blocks home by himself, gingerly applying the least amount of pressure as possible to his wounded limb. It is harder than it sounds.</p><p>  When he is home, he does not feel alive; he does not feel anything at all. There are lies he can tell himself. He can say he doesn’t need the rush of adrenaline racing from bullets and leaping out of buildings, but he needs it more than his body needs oxygen. He could assert that he will never forgive Sykkuno for betraying him, but that is not not truthful either. The truth is that Sykkuno is a drug. This life that yanked him in and has not let go- has no intention of doing so- is a drug. Through the transitive property, they are all the same. He cannot let go of any of these things that have enthralled him for so long. He is never going back.</p><p>  The bleached blonde don with a gang up in Cicily passes him a folder, “27 hits, one week.”</p><p>  Corpse nods, “You running low on serotonin?”</p><p>  “Just make me happy for a moment like citalopram.”</p><p>  They recite each other’s code like children with a secret handshake. The mutual understanding passes between them easily: this must be important; I trust you.</p><p>  “That’s fine.”</p><p>  “Pete’ll get back to you with the details. Contact Travis if something goes wrong but nothing will.” The gunner, as he has requested to be called by everyone, gives him a pitying glance, “And he sent me a message. He’ll see you in Venice.”</p><p>  Corpse does not respond. It is an honor to work with MGK; he doesn’t want his personal affairs to compromise his career plans. Sykkuno can wait. They’ll see each other again, perhaps under better circumstances but, then again, knowing them, probably not. He wants to explain that if Sykkuno is involved, he would rather not take on the job at all, but he stays silent.</p><p>  “You should fly out tomorrow,” he advises, and Corpse knows that tomorrow could mean anything with the man’s terrible scheduling habits and tendency to overpromise his clients.</p><p>  He remembers the first time he met with the mafia man. He was merely a sprout at that time, young and a little too thin like a limp spaghetti noodle, but he could shoot, take orders, and keep a secret very well.</p><p>  “We’re untouchable, you know that?” He said, lighting a thick cigarette, “You could be untouchable too, if you play your cards right. I’m sure you will, I’m sure you’ll do great.</p><p>  He remembers, also, the first time MGK had explained the novelties of his particular lifestyle. The blonde man had rattled off spectacular things made available to him through violence, intimidation, and brute strength. He had revealed numerous tactics that also made a great impact on getting what he wanted.</p><p>  The most important thing he could tell him was the way the underground works. The mobs move as separate entities, a hundred little snakes in a lawn of pests that would otherwise run rampant but need the serpents to guide them and manage their affairs. Some snakes lived long lives and survived the sheddings of many skins which is to say that as the world changes, they must adapt or get their heads chopped off- which is not a figure of speech in the slightest. Corpse learned a lot working with him, and he’ll never regret it. The man has a certain style of hands-on teaching. He enjoys torturing people by ripping their teeth out one by one and relishes in the endless flow of blood as they cough up their secrets.</p><p>  The Venice job goes well, and nothing seems amiss when Corpse is about to check out of his penthouse hotel room. Until he spots Sykkuno’s initials scrawled on the doorframe.</p><p>  “I thought I left you in America,” he says airily, directing his gaze to the balcony. From the shadows, the most revered and powerful mob boss holds his focus and almost smiles. His heart flutters, and his hands reach for something, a revolver or Sykkuno’s hand, even he is not sure which.</p><p>  “I thought you knew me better than that.” He counters, and Corpse understands why people love serial killers and mystery novels so much. It’s the thrill of turning a corner and not knowing who or what is on the other side, “You should learn that I wouldn’t abandon you. Never.”</p><p>  The promise had gone unsaid for all the time they had known each other, but it feels so good to hear it expressed fully.</p><p>  “Well, I’m glad you’re here.”</p><p>  “Me too. Where do we go from here?”</p><p>  “We could travel the world,” he suggests, thinking of that one trip to Moscow they took together.</p><p>  “Buy a summer home in Paris.”</p><p>  “Or rob a few casinos in Vegas.”</p><p>  Sykkuno beams, and the world feels happy again, like everything is fine, “I do have a few connections there.”</p><p>  They are married in June in Marseille. It is a small ceremony, only including Toast, Ludwig, a few old friends, Edison, and his girlfriend Leslie- both of whom have taken a sudden fascination with Sykkuno and went to the effort to plan his bachelor party. Poki is even there, without a disguise for once. She timidly joins the conversation as the others mingle, but she has always felt a certain trepidation when socializing, though the group does their best to include her. Lily arrives later than usual, and she hurries to Sykkuno’s side, adjusting his tie and fluffing his hair. They have come to rely on each other like best friends, and they both cherish the escape from mundane life the other offers.</p><p>  Toast finds Corpse with his head in his hands in his dressing room.</p><p>  “Stand up,” he commands in the strong tone that used to bring organizations to their knees but now orders around doctors. The man stands up straight, ignoring his cane, “this is a big day. No time for that.”</p><p>  Corpse complies, straightening his unwrinkled shirt and threading his fingers through his hair. Toast takes a step closer, smiling at Corpse, at who he grew up to be.</p><p>  “Here,” he says, primly folding the blade with an ornate hilt in his open hand, “in case of emergencies. And it’s your something borrowed.” Corpse appreciates the fine craftsmanship and remarks internally that it may very well be the only knife he has ever owned that will never know bloodshed. Hopefully, its sharp talon will not end up besmirched with crimson arrogance.</p><p>  “Borrowed?”</p><p>  “Of course. Well, it might be stolen, and you won’t be borrowing it because I’m giving it to you.”</p><p>  “Thank you.”</p><p>  “Don’t mention it.”</p><p>  “Rae would have loved to see this, you know.”</p><p>  “Really?” He asks, checking his reflection in the mirror. His face has more color in it than he would have thought possible, and he does not resemble a vampire as much as he used to. His all black outfit is wonderfully made, he notes, while turning to admire the different angles and the way the chains around his neck jangle.</p><p>  “Yeah,” Toast pauses to remember his fallen companion, “she had that red suit she’d been saving for a special occasion. It would have been so great to have her here.”</p><p>  There are no ‘I’m sorry’s necessary; everything has already been said before. The time to reflect on the past has ended, and it is time to look forward. Toast understands, and Corpse understands, and Sykkuno understands. They all regret their actions and their harsh words that landed too close to home. Toast escorts his closest friend, the only true one he has left, down the short aisle to where his love awaits him. He does not shed a tear. Okay, he totally does, but I am telling you that in confidence. </p><p>  The small group clustered together to watch the unification of two parties lets the gentle flow of conversation meander to a hush. Feeling it unnecessary to bring a minister or priest to preside over the ceremony, Corpse and Sykkuno commit themselves to each other without frivolous formalities. They pledge their undying love to each other without regret. For once in their lives, they find pleasure in something other than pain.</p><p>  The stage had been set for a grand performance. Every actor had prepared meticulously, memorized lines for hours on end, and when the opening night arrived, they gave their hearts to the stage and breathed in the wonder of the intoxicating lights. But the curtains falls and their faces, downcast and crestfallen, no longer resemble the haughty, impressive, untouchable facades that previously hung on their countenances. The crowd’s applause rings in their ears and echoes around the empty theater for a long time after if only to haunt the ones who partook in the festivities. This is all a roundabout explanation of the end of an era. In the end, their faces do not recognize themselves in the mirror, and the hectic celebration, the ethereal beauty of being a part of something has dissipated. It is unlikely they will ever taste it again.</p><p>  After the denouement, which is to say the end of the play, Corpse and Sykkuno travel the world and manage their business affairs from afar, telling themselves there is no shame in taking time off. They sample the world’s finest delights and roam the countryside in each other’s arms. Really, it is all they have ever wanted.</p><p>  Poki finally settles down, planting roots somewhere in America. She lives every day with the heavy dark cloud overhead that maybe this will be the day that the assassins find her and her luck runs out. Sometimes, she even considers going the way of Rae and spiting all of them by completing their job before they can. Like all the so-called great Roman emperors, she could fall on her own sword without a second thought, but she stays strong. She has always tried to stay strong. Maybe one day she will convince herself that it is worth it.</p><p>  Lily finally moved back to where she had lived around the time Michael died. She plants flowers on his grave a lot, but she has also learned how to move on. The trauma will always follow, but perhaps she will negotiate a peace treaty with the part of her that blames herself. The beautiful woman is content, and the world is better for it.</p><p>  Toast’s condition only worsens, but he stays strong and hopeful. Corpse and Sykkuno make weekly visits to the hospital to remind him that he is loved and cherished and that the new generation will be a complete failure without his careful guidance and teaching. He still holds out hope that they will have a child and give him a chance to teach the youth about pickpocketing, lying, and the value of a dollar. Most of all, he just wants something that will outlive him, a legacy for people to remember when he is finally gone.</p><p>  Tired of the endless schedule and boring job, Ludwig retires his police uniform and teaches boxing class at the local recreation center. He spends many of his days sleeping, but he is satisfied and happy, no longer weighed down by the grueling requirements of a never ending work week. Sometimes, he imagines how his life might have turned out differently, but if he had a chance, he would do everything the same.</p><p>  Techno finds himself at his wit’s end and decides to call in a favor from his great uncle Sir Billiam III who lands him a few jobs in Vienna to retire on. In his spare time, he reads Greek myths and plans heists that will never come to fruition, but it keeps him occupied. It is important to remember, of course, what nearly everyone says the first time they meet Techno: “If he ever had the mind to, he’d have taken over the whole world by now.” Instead, he competes with the neighboring villagers outside his vast estate in a potato farming contest, which, oddly, is not the weirdest thing he has ever done.</p><p>  Dream plans a large operation but makes the mistake of leaving a hole wide enough for Tommy to sneak in through. He rats them out to the authorities as a sort of retribution for his brother’s death. Dream kills Tommy. Theseus is exiled, and life goes on in the same way it always has, the same way it always will. </p><p>  The world never stops turning, and the pages of life never stop writing themselves. Everyone seems satisfied, and karma has done her job. Except some are happy while others wallow in self pity and anger. As I said, life goes on.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Did you like it? I’m not really sure how to feel, but if you did enjoy, let me know. If you didn’t, tell me what I can do better to improve on my writing.</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Tell me what you think? Something I could have done better, whatever you wanna say. I hope you enjoyed :)</p></blockquote></div></div>
</body>
</html>